The Day I Felt Small
My grandmother dropped me off at the last suburban bus station for my first solo trip. I stood on the step of the bus, turned and waved at her smiling face, and fought the unforeseen urge to run back to her car. I forced myself up the stairs of the city bus. By the time I looked out the window, my grandmother had already driven off, leaving the dull bus stop empty once again. I felt a wetness beginning to fill my eyes, but I willed the tears away. I wouldn’t let them fall. I was here, on this bus, for a reason. “First time leaving home?” A voice beside me asked.
“Is it that obvious?” I asked as I turned to see a middle-aged woman beside me.
“If you wipe that puppy dog look off your face it won’t be,” she said. “Once the homesickness wears off, you’ll want to be anywhere but home. See if I’m wrong.”
Within just two hours, I was off the stale air of the bus and in the city. Lights seemed to shine from one building to another, cars filled the streets like sardines, and the skyscrapers — my god, they literally scraped the sky — towered over me in a welcoming sort of bubble. In that moment, I felt like I could do anything. I could be anyone. Because I was finally in the city I had dreamed of.
But that feeling only lasted a few hours.
