“To love is to live. I am still alive.”
This was graffiti on the side of a boxcar—upside down, no less. I sat in my car waiting impatiently for the train to pass, this southbound train creeping away from Metro Detroit to points unknown. Most boxcar graffiti I see is unreadable, fake gang signs or phrases of random words that don’t make sense to me, but this one struck me like a bolt of lightning.
Since the day I realized I would have to leave my soon-to-be-ex husband, something inside me has felt a little numb, a little dead. Something has been cold and empty, even in spite of all that goes on around me and the life I have been creating for myself. I have been going in the hope that this will heal in time.
It will do so, with time. Of this I am sure.
For I am still alive, and I still love. My heart did not die when my marriage did.
Whoever you are who felt this so strongly that you had to paint this on the highest part of a boxcar door, you unknown brother or sister of my soul, you are not alone. I also still love, and I am also still alive. I am with you. And I thank you.