The woman beside me on the train reminded me of Vanessa Redgrave. She looked comfortable in denim, and her long hair was white and stringy. When she started to write, slowly, in her journal I couldn’t help but sneak a glance (I got nothing). At one point, she’d turned to me. Where am I headed? Am I on holiday? Is the woman across my seat my mother, or are we actually sisters?
She and her husband, who sat across from her, were from Nevada, she said. Not Las Vegas, but somewhere near the famous city.
“We only knew about the shooting after a while,” she was saying. “I wish we didn’t.” ✱
The Pastel Hands 
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