Ella Frances Sanders



Have to write something, have to remember what has been seen.

Sitting on the platform, waiting. Train pulling up on the opposite side, I see a man drinking straight from a plastic milk bottle. Woman using a pen instead of the fingers on her right hand to push the keys of her laptop, people pretending to be absorbed in their phones, their papers, their books. 

I read and read and read until the words swim like fish in a haze of black and white water.

I’ve been here before, walked these corridors and felt this familiar dread. It can creep into your bloodstream at the most inopportune moments, seized up and harder to fall asleep.

The hours of tomorrow that will be spent in the sky; the boredom, the fear, the angst. The wondering at what the hell you were thinking going on this trip, because it was unnecessary and he wasn’t actually serious about any of it, maybe. Falling between clouds of panic, you will be rained upon for just under a week and you wonder how can you possibly stay dry.

Could you run, could you sit. Can you honestly say that you weren’t expecting anything?