The trouble is, you think you have time.

It's as though I'm on this train, with people constantly getting on and off. Some leave quickly, without so much as a backward glance. I almost prefer those insufferable passengers, the goodbye is easy. But then there are those that take their time, saying goodbye slowly and intricately, before they tip-toe away to better lives. Regardless of the individual au revoir, they all manage to leave something behind: a scraggly scarf that still has the faintest scent of coffee, a pearly, beaded necklace reminiscent of better times, or some obscure novel in french script. I gather up my collection of their little memoirs, and I teach myself not to mind the circus of passengers. Despite the fact that scraggly, coffee-stained scarves do not keep you warm, beaded necklaces do eventually fall apart, and obscure, french novels don't keep you occupied for very long.