On Getting Home

Chattering teeth, chapped hands, wind swirling through my hair. Finally the bus rushes to the curb. I step on and the driver nods. I don't need to show my pass; he knows my red cheeks and blue lips by now. An older woman is eating chicken soup under the sign that says "No food or drink" in big block letters. She has creases in her head and mismatched socks. Nobody seems to mind. A genetleman with a cane is reading a crumpled paper and a mother tries to shush her crying baby. A couple holds hands in the back seat. It is busy today. Almost all the plastic seats are filled with people bundled in coats and scarves and backpacks and shopping bags. People with faces and names and stories. I would love to hear their stories sometime, but not now. I have homework to start. I jam an earbud inside my ear and take a seat by a young man in a plaid bowtie. I smile and he smiles back. I shove my backpack under the seat and start reading. The words rattle around in my head like the orphaned penny on the ground. The bus rushes through the streets, stopping every once and a while to invite other thankful passengers into its warm arms. Rain pelts the windows and everybody squeezes together to make room for a wheelchair passenger. We continue rushing through the dark streets lit by a soft orange glow."The normal?" the driver asks. I realize he is talking to me. I smile and nod. He stops the bus and I grap my backpack. A rush of waves and nods see me to the door. I smile. "See you all tomorrow," I say as I step into the rain and rush to my front door.