7 am to Grand Central.
The red under belly of the salamander is still close. I unfurl my fingers and let him scamper. Each minute, each moment whisked away along with the swish of his tail.
Two seats in front, a silver haired man flips open a large, hard covered book, dark navy cover – so rare to see a real book. His index finger slides down the page, followed by the rustle of the page turn, a sound produced only from something grown from the Earth.
A lady, across from him wears a grape colored knitted hat, fluffy pom-pom on top, backpack on her lap. Her head leans against window, she’s fast asleep, her mouth partially open, breathing softly.
Man down the aisle, his head swaying, large muffs cover his ears, noise canceling head phones streaming, perhaps a tribute to Chuck Berry, or something soulful, the deep baritone of Barry White with Let the Music Play.
The conductor, his uniform snug around the abdomen, comes down the aisle, offering a kind smile, patient for those scrambling to find their tickets.
The neon sign overhead flashes: Next stop. Harlem – 125th St. 10 minutes from Grand Central.
I close my eyes. The morning sun pierces through the eyelids. The speeding train passes trees and buildings which break the light, but it comes. My world moving to light, again and again and again. I stand under a shower of light.
Just another Monday. A new day. J. B. Priestley’s “delight at the prospect of a new day, a fresh try, one more start, with perhaps a bit of magic waiting somewhere behind the morning.”
And yet it seems that magic has already struck.
With the unfurling of the hand, and the flash of the salamander.
“Each minute the last minute.”