By Grand Central Station

I Sat Down and Wept

Elizabeth Smart

 

 

 

1945

 

 

 

I am standing on a corner in Monterey, waiting for the bus to come in, and all the muscles of my will are holding my terror to face the moment that I most desire. Apprehension, and the summer afternoon keep dying my lips, prepared at ten-minute intervals all through the five hour wait.

But then it is her eyes that come forward out of the vulgar disembarkers to reassure me that the bus has not disgorged disaster: her maddona eyes, soft as the newly-born, trusting as the un-tempted. And, for a moment, at that gaze, I am happy to forgo my future, and postpone indefinitely the miracle hanging fire. Her eyes shower me with innocence and surprise. Was it for her, after all, for her whom I had never expected nor imagined, that there had been compounded such ruses of convenience? Behind her he for whom I have waied so long, who has stalked so unbearably through my nightly dreams, fumbles with the tickets and the bags, and shuffles up to the event which too much anticipation has fingered to shreds.

For after all, it is all her. We sit in a café drinking coffee. He recounts their adventures

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