The Platform Listens

The departures board lists Greenwich and Boston, both times are marked 1947. The platform is vacant, smells of salt and dried oil. I stand near the yellow tile column; the grout is stained deep green. Under my heel, the polished concrete gives a ripple, a sudden damp resistance, as if the surface remembers the weight of a tide. My coat feels too warm here. I turn toward the bench, a chipped oak piece, and see a small photograph pinned to the timetable. It is a sepia square, and my face is there, barely visible, obscured by the corner fold. I do not touch it. A porter, wearing a charcoal wool uniform, shifts his weight by the ticket gate. His shoes carry the faint, distinct heat of an electric radiator, even though the air holds the cool weight of unsaltored river water. He does not look at me, but his hands rest at his sides, stilling for me.