Understanding

Understanding

The woman who cries suddenly at the bus stop cannot

speak English, and English is all I understand. Her torso heaves

and her white breath puffs like smokestacks, but with a gesture

of weak dismissal, she says in every language that nothing

can be done. Since there is nothing for me to do, I look up

from the curb at the wiry hairs on her chin, the knuckles

over her eyes. It is odd to watch somebody cry

without feeling the need to intervene—like watching a video

of your own surgery. Her wool scarf protrudes

from her coat like a hernia. It bounces fatly

when her head shakes and smothers bits of her Polish

mutterings. When the bus arrives, I offer a moment

to let her board first, although there is no point:

I know she has heaved herself up by the yellow handlebar

only when the sound of crying rises behind me. One man

near the front leaves his seat, but makes no gesture of offering—

her life is a block of ice that burns to touch too long.

The driver feels this. Her voice cracks: Ma’am, do you

want to sit down? Then, groping for connection and worried

by the woman’s reckless swaying, she repeats,

more forceful now: Ma’am, please have a seat.

I am finally helpful. She doesn’t speak English, I just finish saying,

when, as if on cue, without any sign of recognition,

the woman drops herself weeping into the seat.