Then the elevator doors closed between us.
Union Station was crowded when I arrived.
Travelers hurried beneath the vaulted ceiling.
Children dragged backpacks.
Announcements echoed overhead.
Families reunited.
Couples kissed.
Life continued with insulting normalcy.
I stood beneath the station clock.
At 4:07, an elderly man sat beside me.
Gray coat.
Baseball cap.
Hands folded around a cane.
I noticed him only because something about the way he crossed one ankle over the other felt familiar.
Then he turned.
My knees almost failed.
Michael.
Older.
Thinner.
Silver-haired.
But Michael.
Alive.
I slapped him.
The sound was louder than I expected.
He didn’t move.
I slapped him again.
“You were alive.”
“Yes.”
“You let me bury you.”
“Maggie—”
“You let me grieve you!”
“I know.”
“You don’t know!”
My voice broke.
“You don’t know what mornings were like. You don’t know what anniversaries were like. You don’t know what it felt like waking up and reaching for someone who would never be there again.”
