Through Glass Gently

Through the rain-slick window of my car,
in the hush of a supermarket sprawl,
I see a stranger sobbing softly
inside their still, dim cabin of glass.
Not loud, not frantic—
a tremble of grief so gentle
it echoes louder in the chest.

That kind of crying
hurts the one who watches.
Compassion,
they used to call it.

I want to go to them—
to say, you’re not alone,
it will pass,
look forward.
But the truth would wither in my throat.
Those words would betray
what I know too well.

Life does not always lift us.
Sometimes, it presses down—
hard and hollow.
Those are the hours that stretch us.
And shape us.

A single tear
carves cool and silent
down my cheek
as their eyes find mine.
We hold each other,
a moment suspended,
a pulse of human ache
shared in the stillness.
Then—
they drive away.

I stay.
Until another car shifts.
Someone else—watching me.
And I wonder,
what do they see?

Their face is quiet,
but their eyes glisten.
And I see
one small tear
begin its silent descent
as I drive away.

• Through Glass Gently by Jay Rose Ana