To: Sick Transit From: Gloria Mundi

Dear Transit,

I’ve known from the start that ours was not a union based on love. You only tolerated me for my money – a pittance to you, but all I was able to give. For what I gave, I was allowed to dance to your tune.

I thought we had an understanding.

You were always unreliable, capricious. I was always there ready, waiting for you, greeting you cheerfully — a greeting often returned with distain.

Sometimes you passed right me by in the street without acknowledging my presence although I waved at you frantically.

Sometimes I waited in vain for you. Hours passed with no sign of you. It kept me humble.

There were times when you took me so roughly and carelessly, I feared for my life.

You kept me on my toes. Always wondering if you’d show up as promised. Always wondering what would be in store for me when you did show up.

Would you be cold and rude? Would you be hot and angry? Would you take me or leave me?

But it wasn’t all bad. There were times we shared a laugh. Times you smiled. Times when weeks went by and you were the perfect partner.

Through it all, you somehow managed to seduce me into an illusion of independence – something I craved. You laid the city out at my feet. You gave me carte blanche to explore it. I felt free.

You lured me deeper with your talk of ten-year plans. You made me believe we had a future together.

But it was all a ruse, wasn’t it? A clever manipulation to make me totally dependent on you.

I think, deep down, I knew it all along because there was always this flicker of resentment that licked around the edges of my heart. I did my best to squelch it.

And now you’ve abandoned me. Utterly. Completely. Without a word of explanation. You’ve broken our vows. Abused my trust. Exploited my vulnerability.

What did I do? Haven’t I always been there for you? Faithfully? Keeping up my end of our agreement?

What was once a squelchable flicker is now a core of white hot  resentment.  I’m sorry. I can’t help it. It eats at my gut. And yet, I am ashamed to admit that  if you were to return tomorrow, I believe I would still  swallow my pride and be there for you again — waiting.

Are you coming back?

The thought that you might never return fills me with both despair and relief. Despair because I’m not sure how I will cope without you.

And relief because maybe I will finally be able to move on. Maybe, just maybe there will be someone new to take your place.  I don’t ask for much — someone reliable, trustworthy and capable, who appreciates me and will treat me with respect. Who will not leave me suddenly to fend for myself at the worst possible time.

Worldy things are fleeting. Think on.




That’s it. I think I’ve got all the transit strike-related posts out of my system.