The Looking

He kept looking at me

on the morning bus,

the older man with the tremor in his grip—

the kind of shake

that means something is leaving

the body slowly.

He'd look,

then look away,

then look again,

like he was trying to place me,

like he thought he knew me

from somewhere,

from before,

from a version of myself

that was more

readable.

And I became aware,

suddenly,

that I was being

read by a stranger,

that my face meant something

to him,

that I was a clue

to a mystery

I didn't know I was part of.

The bus lurched.

His hand tightened on the pole.

I could see the tremor,

the shake,

the way his body

was forgetting itself,

the way time was leaving

him piece by piece.

Maybe he thought I was someone's daughter.

Maybe I reminded him of a younger version

of his wife.

Maybe I looked like

someone who mattered.

But when our eyes met,

he looked away,

and I understood

that he'd lost the thread,

that whatever memory

I'd triggered

had dissolved,

that I was back to being

just another person

on a bus

in the morning,

unreadable,

unfamiliar,

a stranger

who'd almost been

someone

to someone

for just a moment.