I walk to the station wearing my new coat, a nice dark gray, it fits me well and was handmade by a local designer in Stockholm, which I didn’t know until I laid it on the counter to pay for it. One hand in my pocket, the other clutches a rather sophisticated bag that holds my laptop. My hair is pulled back, a scarf wrapped loosely around my neck, brown ankle boots clad my feet. I board the train and grab one of the Swedish papers bent over the handrail. I sit down, cross my legs, and after scanning the front page, open the paper all the way up.
When the train crosses the bridge, I turn my face toward the window. Light flickers in bright patches across the lake, boats line the waters edges, another bridge curves in the distance connecting to a different island. Then the light begins to change. The train slides upward and fills up with watery shapes. Reflections of those sitting behind me sweep over my head like a wave. Next comes a succession of shadows. And then I see my mother’s face.
It shocks me to see her so clearly. Not that its a bad thing. I’ve always considered my mother to be quite beautiful. What surprises me is that its the older version of my mother. The one with furrows and patches, skin gone a bit sallow. When did this happen?
Many years ago, I was only a teenager, I saw a photograph of my mother as a 20-something year old bridesmaid. She was cutting into a tiered wedding cake wearing a fitted yellow dress and a white belt clasped high around her little waist. At first glance, I thought it was me. I have cut the cake at multiple weddings, but when had I ever worn a dress like that?
It did not come as a glance today. I was looking hard into that window, my eyes sharpened to catch details, when the image of my mother slowly crept up from behind me and stopped when it faced me straight on, aligning itself with my features and frame as if it were not something happening to me at all. Just someone who has always been here.
Two stops later, I stand up with twenty other people who wear nice blazers and boots too, who fold their papers and return them to the handrail so that they can grab their briefcases. When the doors open at Sankt Eriksplan, we step out of the train and rush toward the stairs. I have no reason to rush, but I don’t waste any time. Because for the first time in many weeks, I feel like someone.
No one can see the ratty loose sweatshirt beneath my fitted coat. No one knows that I found this coat at a secondhand shop last week, highly discounted because of a small defect, or that an old employer gave me this stylish bag so that I’d look legit enough to represent their company. No one knows that my boots and scarf are a few years old, or that I struggled to read the Swedish paper and mostly just looked at the pictures. No one knows me at all. But I look like someone.
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