A Landing Place

(Originally posted as a series on Twitter)

Every morning, my bus pulls up to the same stop to find the same older couple waiting. The woman, no great beauty, gets on.

As she walks to the back of the bus, the man, not handsome, walks the length outside, matching her pace.

When she sits, the same routine: they look at each other through the glass, they smile, he waves, she presses her hand to the window.

As the bus pulls away, she turns to face forward with the other passengers. And she is a bright light.

I watch this every day, craning to see both parties at the glass. And every morning, it makes this little thing inside me start to hum.

This morning, they were standing at the stop as usual. When it rains, as today, he holds an umbrella over her. She got on, I sat up.

I watched her inside, watched him outside, watched him smile, wave. Watched her not look back. She sat, a stone. The bus pulled away.

I called it a little thing before. Not an insignificant thing. I surprised myself, though, by starting to cry.

In my defense, I am very tired.

Still.

One always thinks there's a landing place coming. But there ain't. -- Virginia Woolf