Looking Down

Some people think of troubles as burdens. Like their only purpose are as inertia against life's upward progress. But I preferred a different outlook. I would look out from the wide, bright windows of the coffee shop on Fifth Avenue and look at the people passing by.

The man over there in an expensive raincoat, checking his phone? Barely there at all. The one next to him, walking a little slower, a little hunched against the cold? Oh, there's a weight to him. There's a man who's done things, and had things done to him, and he's still here to tell the tale. Maybe there's a little less of him, maybe he's bruised and battered, but it hasn't broken him.

The young woman in the corner, talking on the phone when I started speaking? She's stopped, her eyes are closed, and now she's got enough weight to crush a car. If I were a betting man - and, really, I've seen enough of this life not to bother - I'd say she's heading to the hospital soon.

She'll be carrying that weight a little longer, I'm afraid.