The Man Holding His Dog

The subway car grew noticeably quieter when he stepped aboard.

People looked up briefly and then away again.

He was a large man dressed in worn black leather, his arms marked with tattoos, his face weathered by years that seemed to have left their traces behind.

Yet it was not his appearance that drew attention.

It was his grief.

He sat down holding an elderly dog wrapped carefully in a blanket and wept without attempting to hide it.

Not loudly.

Not theatrically.

Simply the way a person sometimes does when sorrow has become too heavy to contain.

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