Three Musketeers and One Pregnant Mother

I make my way through the humid heat to the train, clothes and backpack stuck to me with sweat. Passengers herd into the car like water being pumped into a tank. I can feel the anxious and confined energy leak from the people pressured against one another around me. I notice three young girls sitting with their mother, dressed in lavender, turquoise, and hot pink skirts and t-shirts. They sit with each other, quietly looking around with wide eyes and blank faces. I see their young faces empty, yet observant. As if a curiosity wells from their being as to what might come next. I see their tiny limbs poking out from the oversized seats--two share one. The mother is in the seat closest to me, scrolling through her Instagram feed. I look into the eyes of these young souls, and a warm smile escapes my heart. It was as if I could cradle the tiniest one in my arms, and carry her in my arms for miles with ease. It is her that looks up at me, and smiles, her face dropping soon afterward as if she made a mistake, and receded to mistrust. 

The train continues it's rumble on the tracks, and before too long, the girls legs are bowed up against the all-too-large seat, and her mother looks over, smacking her across the legs. The young girl, without crying or whining, without looking her mother in the eye, pulls her legs up more to pull them to her chest, and when her mother continues to smack her legs harder and she flattens them. It was so fast... Confusion as the girl tried to do what her mother wanted but didn’t know what it was. She kept her blank expression. When she straightened them and was unharmed, was when she understood. I see many things. A dollars roll out of a hand, heads bob as they grow weary in slumber. A leaning into the mother’s lap, and the furthest one's head falling silently to the stranger's arm. The phone is now held to the mother's ear in a tight indignant grasp. A harsh and vengeful tone radiates from her corner of anger. The conversation was about custody, and about the receiver's wrongs, likely to a friend to which she rants. She hangs up abruptly, to continue scrolling through her feed. She notices the furthest child leaning on a stranger, and grabs her arm, pulling her over to her sister's head for readjustment. I see her then lay her arm across the back of the seats, as if to say, "No touching." The trains stops and I must leave, but I am saddened. Sometimes just being on the train, doesn't exactly mean we are going anywhere.