Drooping Man

The man is drooping. His legs and torso sit properly in a metallic seat. But his upper body leans over to the side. His close-cut hair and dusty jacket suggest a straight-forward fellow, probably heading home to enjoy an evening of TV. His trousers are wrinkled and shabby. And he is drooping. Passersby at the train-station thought he was asleep. Perhaps he was drunk. But he is drooping.

A clean-shaven monk notices the man. The monk pauses and then comes closer. He gently lays his hand on the man’s cheek. The drooping man is dead. The monk smoothes out his tan-colored robe and then abruptly pumps out his arms to the side, as if preparing for a magic trick. But the monk has religion, not magic, in mind. He leans over and takes the drooping man’s right hand into his own. The monk’s left hand straightens so as to give the blessing.

A crowd has gathered. Their eyes gaze with a look of confusion, excitement, and sorrow. A young lady with a pudgy face leans over from behind the seats to catch a glance of the drooping man. She wants to know. A fellow, sitting a few seats down from the tragedy, watches the monk. The fellow has seen this before. He fingers the bottle in his black-wool coat, but considers that a swig wouldn’t be appropriate at this time.

The monk prays in a tone too quiet to hear. The crowd knows that the monk is commending the man’s soul to the afterlife, wherever that might be. There is a moment of silence. A deeper meaning can almost be caught. But then the train station shakes. Another train arrives. The medics take away the drooping man’s body. The monk is left alone. And he is drooping.