At the crossing--a more external nonfiction

**a much improved version of this will appear in the 2010 issue of The Broken Plate
At the crossing, your hair is blown by the train. You do not stand on the gray area closest to the rails. The voice on the loud speaker has already warned you against this. The train comes. Passes. You stand behind the red X sign. It frustrates you. It is implied that you cannot read and they have added pictures to each sign to make sure that you follow instructions. The train passes and you move to cross the tracks. A dry heat rises from them and you think of when you put pennies on the rails to flatten them on the rails behind your grandmother’s house. You stand in the heat while others cross. Your hair gives a final swirl and settles across your face, making your cheeks a mosaic. You walk to the last bus stop and sit in the metal shelter. It is not cooler because it is summer and the shelter is metal and you are surrounded by asphalt. The yellow parking lines have worn off of the asphalt. You imagine crossing the stretch like it is a desert. You would walk hunched over, even more so than you usually do. You would whisper for water and see a mirage. The plastic bag in your hand says Thank you Thank you Thank you. You have learned not to trust your eyes and do not know how many times the bag actually says Thank you. You reach inside. Your fingers close around the perfume bottle found on 16th street. It hisses when you squeeze the pump. Patchouli surrounds you. You again imagine your grandmother’s house. The smell of your uncle’s room. The feel of the carpet between your toes. You remember the rug next to you—another find, from behind the post office. With one hand on the cool glass and one hand stroking the rug’s fringe, you feel whole. You remember that it is not the having that matters. It is the touching. Your fingers feel the fringe and you know that you have hands. This makes you real. A person. The nurse standing in the line for bus 33 sees your rug. She says mm-mmm in the way that only Black mothers can. You know that this rug implies a floor, which implies a home. This makes you a Person. And you know that, for her, this is touching in another way. In the way that your mother talked about after watching Katherine Hepburn movies.