It is 3:30 at the train station. There is an elderly lady with rust dyed hair and a hot pink embroidered “Disney World” jacket whom frantically waves up at the window. She waves and waves; each hand stroke is more frantic and pleading than the one before, as if she is telling the window dwellers that every second they are apart she is tortured a little more. I stood behind her along with many people like me; dark jackets zipped up to chins, ear buds tightly placed in ears, hands jammed in pockets. Mid- February makes waiting for the train a cold and dreary pastime. But she kept on waving, like the last ember fighting to rebuild the fire. Suddenly, I knew I wanted to be her. I wanted all of us black-coated-ear bud-wearers to be her. I wanted a sea of waves reaching up to the window and for the window dwellers to mouth “I love you” through the foggy glass. But as quickly as the thought ran through my veins, the woman disappeared into the train. I was back with my kind, and it was a cold mid-February day.