Stories from The Moon / Cuentos de la Luna

I’m on the train to a new home, again. Again. I ‘ve been doing this daily for over a week now. I’m tired of moving my body back and forth like the train itself. Do trains ever get tired of the constant non-settling, non-stopping, non-ending movement on the rails? Yesterday I got on the bus to class. My body was too close to other bodies. I felt icky, too warm, uncomfortable. I kept telling myself to hold it together for two more stops. I tried to keep my head down and look at my shoes. Don’t look at their hair. So much hair. Too many heads. Hands. Everyone’s backs. Someone behind me. I held my breath as long as I could so the other bodies wouldn’t come into my nostrils.

Once off the bus I realized that my class was in a different building. I’d been on the bus for nothing. I put my body through it for nothing.

Today sitting in class I did well, I remained focused. During the second fifteen minute break, I wanted to skip down the hallway, to meow comfortably, to ask the guest speaker if she was okay because her voice broke when she spoke about how the number of visitors in the museum have decreased since October 7th. But I know I can’t skip down the hall; I know I can’t meow in public and I don’t know if we’re allowed to ask those questions.

Yesterday, after class, I was waiting for the bus when a girl from class– her face reminds me of corn fields and sunflowers– said my name and waved goodbye to me. I removed my earplugs and asked if she was also taking the bus. I remembered to smile and she said she was just saying goodbye and walking home. I said, see you next week then. I don’t remember her name.

I’m getting ready to get off the train. There’s this emergency break with instructions. I wish life had an emergency break with instructions. Something like, pull gently to stop all the noise from getting in your ears. Pull to stop for a moment, to be wrapped inside a bubble suspended in time. These weeks have been good but they’ve been too much too. I can feel my body and my brain detaching from each other like an old sticker peeling off from the edges. 

I want to hug Kai; I want my partner’s arms around me tightly; I want to hear his Swiss-German words even if I don’t understand them. I want to take a shower, wear my velvet pajamas and cry a good fat tear. On the train, I tell myself that I’m almost home. I spot a fire extinguisher and repeat the number attached to it over and over until I’m aware that my lungs are breathing. 10 11 5 12. 10 11 5 12. 10 11 5 12. 10 11 5 12. 10 11 5 12. 10 11 5 12. 10 11 5 12. 10 11 5 12. 10 11 5 12. 10 11 5 12. 10 11 5 12. 10 11 5 12. 10 11 5 12. 10 11 5 12.