When in Breda (perhaps Brenda)

On a train from Antwerp to Amsterdam I hear my dead uncles voice. The words I can’t  understand. I don’t know Dutch. But it belongs to him.

We are on our second bottle of wine. We drink it from clear cups we took from a Starbucks in the train station. The sun has already set.

I start to scan over the tops of the seats for him. After the third or fourth row of passengers, I stop myself. I don’t really want to find him.

Between sips and silly jokes with Juliet, I listen for him. Smile to myself when I can hear him over the sounds of strangers whispering, tracks scratching miles, and red wine pouring. I hope, maybe a few times I even pray, that whoever he is sitting with is memorizing his voice.