What I Held Onto

The train came in fast.

The air pressure came with it —

the kind that hits the sternum

and makes the floor go liquid.

My vision went white at the edges.

I grabbed the nearest thing.

A gray coat. A stranger's sleeve.

My knuckles pale against the wool.

He looked down at my hand

with an expression that wasn't cold,

wasn't warm. Just:

noting it.

The doors slid open.

Everyone moved forward.

I let go.

He walked onto the train

and I stood on the platform

and waited for the concrete

to mean something again.

It took a minute.

My knuckles were still pale

when I got to the office.

I poured coffee. Opened my laptop.

Answered three emails I don't remember.

The sleeve was gray wool.

I keep thinking about the weight of it.

How solid it was

in the moment before I knew

I needed something solid.