Episode

He wrote of his commute home from the city on Valentine’s day— In the train station, men and women all rushing to dinner, to the movies, to that rendezvouz with a lover— Rushing unmindful into heartbreak, heartache, all the buds of pleasure or anticipation quivering like tiny asterisks of Gypsophila paniculata and their not-quite shadows against pale grey walls, moving filigree of arms looped around massed bouquets of flowers— Ruffled lilies, darkly gleaming roses, anthuriums raising turgid centers like batons— And there on the station platform, a young man fallen forward on his belly, in the throes of a seizure— Torso stiff, arms and legs flailing, throat constricting, mouth foaming, eyes rolled back as if in rapture— Seizing and seizing, while the faces of that horde of strangers and lovers opened in confused speech and hands wildly gestured– And all the beautiful flowers wrapped in cellophane and ribbons, those astonishing, jeweled colors, trembling as if in sympathy— And as the medics came and lifted, the train doors closing and opening, closing and opening, and the people passing in and out of the vestibule again—

~ With thanks to Wilfredo Pascual

In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.