Stories from The Moon / Cuentos de la Luna

Every now and then, we make it to the same station. Today hers is heading west; mine isn’t moving yet. I see her through the window. Her hair is styled puffy at the top like she used to when she’d pick me up from kindergarten. 
Twice, we’ve tried to get on the same train, but there’s a weird echo on the phone before the call ends. Her voice hasn’t changed. The questions don’t change either, but nothing is the same. Last month, changing trains, I saw the freckle on the back of her neck and how she carries her purse on her left arm. I tried to follow her, to get her attention, but there were too many people walking between us and too little time to make it to our next connection. 

Sitting here, I see her opening the small carton package of her favorite mints and talking to the person beside her. She looks smaller than I remembered. When I grew taller than her, her eyes made me feel grotesque,  as if my height had shifted our bond. My train is moving now. I can’t see her face anymore.