Sitting on the subway coming home from work, I listen to Virginia Wolfe explain her theories with such elegance I can’t help but be inspired to smith words.

The air is heavy with a light, stale breeze manufactured by an archaic ventilation system and the movement of the train speeding through the tunnel.

We come to Keele station and another rider joins the horde of gruelled workers — He’s an older East Asian man carrying much on his shoulders; literally and figuratively. He sags under the weight of his backpack, although when he sheds this weight to the floor of the car, the burden remains. His subtle yet sullen demeanour blends well into the atmosphere he has entered. Our train car is unusually quiet; these passengers and I seem to unite in our desire for pause; unwind; recharge.

The man sits across from me, and I don’t mean to pry into his life outside this space with my eyes, yet his presence is captivating to me as a new arrival to this glum cohort. As I ponder the wonders of Wolfe’s consideration of Women in Literature in the 18th century, I consider her observations in the modern context surrounding the more prominent, ostracized, marginalized groups in our culture.

 

What does this man carry with his head so burdened by gravity? Would I understand it if he told me?

 

He sits and breathes. Deep inhale in, deep exhale out, eyes shuttered lightly. Regaining active composure, he opens his sack to pull out a vial. A small bottle of yellow liquid. A tincture of ginger, turmeric and carrot, I assume, as it’s a common juice wellness shot to remedy the inkling of oncoming sickness. He does not drink the whole vial, like those I’ve seen before, only half; perhaps he plans to drink the rest tomorrow. His eyes never come my direction; I’m safe in my observation zone, and he is absorbed in his own reality.

I don’t get to see how the rest of his ride commences; I am called to exit for my transfer stop. I do think about him though, on my way north through the city on a bus packed with other commuting strangers, sweaty and swaying as the tires bounce on potholed streets.

What was his day like? His week? Where is he going? Why does he carry so much on his shoulders? I hope his tincture has the desired effect; I don’t think his exhausted form could sustain a beating from any common ailment. I wish him rest and peace.

 

Toronto, Bloor Line, 2025