Wrong kind of snow

Wrong kind of snow.

Mother;
clearly upset,
blames herself.
Brother;
annoyed more then anything.
Sister;
retelling humorous family anecdotes,
hoping to lighten the mood.
Nephews;
'Where's Ding?'
the younger;
'Ding, gone?'

'Due to the inclement weather conditions the trains are experiencing delays.'
People sigh,
stare at the timetables,
groan.
Fidget digits on the phone,
texting,
calling,
excusing their delays,

The inconvenience isn't what I hate.
Can I say?
Can I talk about such things?
It's reprehensible.
But,
I'm going to,
you can judge.

The train,.
approaching at a pace.
Rope protrudes from my chest,
very thick.
Unfurling and curling throughout my innards,
rooted,
painlessly.

Someone,
pulling towards the tracks.
So constant,
so urging.
Have to sit down,
brace myself.
Try not to think,
concentrate.
Stop it.

Can't see reality,
just the train,
everything else whited out,
the wrong kind of snow.

I hate it.
Knuckles white under the strain,
gripping armrests,
they attest;
I want to live!

And yet,
here I am,
Imagining my own funeral.