The Train Back to Brooklyn on Dr. Martin Luther King Day

The young woman, leaning against the door of the Q train as it crossed the Manhattan Bridge back to Brooklyn, pulled her phone out of her bag. She noted the last caller and dialed back.

"What!?!" she shrieked. "When did he....." She crumpled against the door, sobbing into the phone. A youngish Muslim guy, well groomed but wearing a jacket too light for this blustery day, turned to her and expressed concern and care, gesturing with one hand, holding Islamic texts in the other. She acknowledged his concern and turned away, sobbing softly the rest of the way back to Brooklyn.

Nearby, an elderly gentleman tenderly held and watched his sleeping wife, as the train rumbled past the Parkside Avenue. A mother with her two very young charges alternately soothed and corrected them in warm West Indian tones.

It had been a long morning in the city, and My Better Half, tired and hanging on, trying to adjust to the lilting cadence of the subway car as it reached Beverley Road, read through a copy of The Onion. The young woman sniffled softly, her back to the car. The Muslim guy and I exchanged glances, sort of a soft breath blown from puffed cheeks with raised eyebrows. Sort of a "hoo-boy," but with the simultaneous sympathy, respectful intimacies,  and the funny distances that living in NewYork City creates.

Suddenly, a guy playing a guitarron mexicano  appeared, a huge instrument,  typical for a mariachi group, a bit stunning for the subway, and he played a plaintive song in Spanish. The young woman sobbed as the music, the singer,  and his song, whatever its subject, connected with her loss.

She bolted from the train at Cortelyou Road. The West Indian lady and her kids got up, and My Better Half and I dropped into a couple of seats for a couple of stops until we reached Home.