At the Daitabashi station I looked across the tracks at Emily and Katrina, two Japanese-American sisters who also taught late on Saturdays.

We waited on the opposite platforms. Emily held her sister’s mittened hand, dusk of late winter shadowing their faces. Weariness was shared between us three, once the last of our child-students has  noisily pushed stubborn feet into shoes in the tiny genkan and idled off into the evening. My breath steamed before me as I waved to both of  them, respiratory signal dissipating along with the chance that they’d see my silent farewell before their arriving train clotted the space
between us.  Alone on my platform, I watched through the glass as they boarded the glowing hollow of the car. 

They both sat, their backs to me. 

Katrina, on the left, leaned her head against Emily’s waiting shoulder as the train pulled away towards Shimokitazawa.

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