Bus Lady

I wait for a bus every working day of my life. Each and every one of those days as far back as I can remember a woman waited for that same bus. I’ve been taking the bus for two years, ever since the change.

This woman I came to call bus lady. She was small, black and weathered. She looked as though she’d fought many battles or at the very least changed many diapers. I saw every morning waiting for the 6:38 bus. Winter she wore two scarves one for her neck another for her head. Spring she took to wearing hats I never saw her wear the same one twice in a season. Summer was her time to let her hair be seen. It was bright white and coal black, like Italian marble in fine but sturdy strands on her head. In the Fall, she wore a scarf upon her head again. She always wore sunglasses.

I hadn’t taken any more interest in her than I’d taken in any of my fellow commuters but for that I saw her so often. The consistency and the sheer number of silent hours made her a serious study of mine. If I were a college student you could reasonably say I was minoring in bus lady.

It was a chilly Monday when she said something to me.

“It strikes me. We’re all using each other.”