XXXI.

The little redheaded boy shrieks as the train emerges into light.  His redheaded mother, her arms covered with stars stamped in blue ink, lifts him onto the seat.  He presses his face against the window, watches the rooftops go by.

In the stations near 125th St., where the train is submerged just beneath the hills of upper Broadway, light filters onto the track through grates in the sidewalk.  Dark grey paint peels in thick flakes off the metal beams between the track and the grate.  Shadows stir the light like waves and I feel we are underwater, trains sliding in and out of the station, divers exploring a reef, a kelp forest.

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