The Last Connection & Tree Surgeons on the Aberdeen Line
The way I came, to get my next connection meant me hoofing it through central Glasgow on a night the city was populated by ghosts. Pale waifs in heels used fliers for protection from the rain. Blue couples held conversations in pizza-parlour windows. I stormed the road head-down, collar-up, trying to light a smoke and nearly tripped into my mother at the station.
I hugged her, damp; there was so much to ask her about miscarriages, our troubles buying a home, the taste of darkness. She listened to me, tender but she had someplace to be. I watched her go zipping between the buses along Queen Street, and I caught the nine forty-one for Aberdeen.