The Slow Tram Through Names

The tram moves through the city, passing storefronts I recognize but cannot name. The window pane sweats condensation, even though the air is dry. I hold a glass of water; the liquid level stays exactly at the brim, never receding, defying the slight tilt of the carriage. I look at the station bench where my mother sat, the bench listing three departure times in the years 1998, 2002, and 2006. I wait for someone, a quiet expectancy settling the way silt settles at the bottom of a tank. The floor beneath my boots shifts; it gives up a faint smell of chlorine and deep currents. I press my heel down hard enough to feel the memory of water, the cool weight of it, pushing up through the worn linoleum. The steam vents hiss steam that smells of wet river stone and cold nickel.