Unclaimed Package

I became aware of its presence when I first walked into the 6 train at 59th and Lexington. It was neither wrapped in shinny festive patterned foil nor in the nerve breaking garbs of plain brownness. It sat there unaware of our curiosity to make its acquaintance. We all felt obligated to apologize in behalf of its thoughtless acquisition of spatial geography. It caused our unsteady gazes to shift from one another, and then back towards it again. Some pretended to read an article and every so often, peered over the paper to confirm that it was still present. A woman later walked in somewhere in midtown and despite a third party explanation and apology, decided to touch it. After a quick change of heart she immediately began recoiling her hand and wiping it along the seam of her light blue faded jean as if disgusted by her thoughtless action. I imagine that most of us were all displeased at her short lived burst of courage which no one cared to mimic. If only one of us would be brave enough to take the lead, walk up to it and make an introduction or claim new found ownership of this most accessible leave behind. None of us knew what to do. All we did was strap-hang and look at each other with bulging eyes, the likes of a lemur. Everyone was on “Red” alert. “What is it?”, asked the Jewish European man with the fuzzy fur hat who was becoming a nuisance as he continued to spew his uninvited conspiracy theories consisting of the word “bomb”, which we were all familiar with, especially since, it was the major headliner of pretty much every paper this morning. Everyone pretended not to hear him since it was easier to disregard him then, entertain his pessimistic approach to life. In truth curiosity was killing us all but none would beckon the calling. We sat and pretended not to be within its proximity. We played the games that people often do with one another when deeper feelings not meant to be confided exist between them. We wanted nothing to do with it and everything to know of it. Perhaps, we were all much more interested in it, then it in us. The only mutually shared aspect of the moment was our detachment to each other and the uncertainty of the journey.

I sort of identified with that unclaimed package, ready to explode, lost and unsure of where I was headed, at the whim of time at chance. How many hands would that unmarked box pass before it was found, discovered, explored, and settled? Silently, I sat yearning for my unwrapping, unclaimed, unburdened by the wear and tear of cherishing hands and solely aware of my contents.