Commute

A single mother just got on the bus with two wide-eyed children. Young kids seem to love riding the bus, viewing it as a sort of grand adventure. They prop themselves on their seat, look back at all the people, then watch ahead through the massive front windshields as the bus bounces along the city street.

The children that get on with Mom early in the morning are not ready to be going yet, and would rather be still sleeping. The lean against Mom's side and close their eyes.

Then there are the talkative drunks who sit at the back and laugh and yell at each other with slurred words. They are the best example anyone ever needs to leave alcohol alone.

In November I see colorful sunrises during my ride to work. By December my morning and evening commutes and in darkness.

You see glimpses of people willing to help each other. Once a man was wobbling down the isle carrying a baby in one arm and a folded up stroller in the other. He lost his balance as the bus hit a bump. Four people jumped up to stabilize him.

I remember the man about my age who saw me reading a backpacking book and commented on how he hiked the Pacific trail, and how much he enjoyed it. He said he would love to get up in the mountains again and do some more backpacking. As we talked he confessed he isnt sure he would make it. He had cancer, and according to his doctor this may be his only year left.

I listened to the story the bus driver told about the lady who pulled her new SUV right in front of him. There was nothing he could do, and her hit her on the driver side. She was devasted and kept repeating my 'husband is going to kill me." The driver asked her "Why is your husband going to kill you?". "Because I wrecked his truck." she replied. "You tell him this:", the bus driver said. "Trucks can be replaced, wives cannot."