I Miss My Subway.

No, not that Subway.  Publix does a nice sandwich, thank you.  It’s the underground I miss.  The tube.  The rapid transit.  The metro.  I like them all but I really miss the T, the Boston subway.

I commuted on the Boston subway for a few years.  I loved the system, its noises, the shock of coming-up into daylight, the mystery of going back down into the dark tunnels.

I loved its roars and screeches. Its hisses, bangs and rattles. The thwack of the turnstiles. All the comforting sounds of travel, down below life above.

I loved knowing that neither sleet nor snow nor dark of night would prevent it from taking me to my destination. 

I had no need to look at maps.  No need to ask if I was on the right train.  No confusion about where to get on.  Or off.  I was part of the throng. Part of the rhythm.

Last time we were in Boston, everything had changed.  As I walked down, deep into the bowels of the system, I looked like, felt like, and was, in fact, a tourist.  And a confused tourist at that.  I choose to forget that and remember the subway I knew and still miss.