Margaret, I loved you as soon as you arrived in our carriage,
as did the refreshment trolley guy,
the young woman you sat beside.
Your face beaming, heart flashing, apologising for taking up space
with your small frame, a tiny suitcase,
bags brimming with life’s joys
You, an antique lighthouse on shore leave
but concerned about ships dashed on the rocks
You, a butterfly becoming
but still cocooning, resting, mid-struggle. Later,
I helped you from the train –
knowing that you wouldn’t ask
As we tumbled gently together, platform-blossom petals in the station’s murmuration breeze, you whispered how kind I was to help you off the train, how you were tail-spinning in the wake of your greatest loss.
I softly begged you
never to apologise
for taking up space,
for struggling,
surviving. Margaret,
I was only helping myself.