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The Bus
By Shiloh Kaeden
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“Thanks,” I huffed as I paid my fare and then made my way to a single window seat at the middle of the bus. I almost missed it…again.
It was cold outside but underneath my bulky jacket I was sweating. I rested my purse on my lap and leaned my head against the window. The condensation cooled the left side of my face. It helped. I unzipped my jacket part way. That helped too.
I was seven years old when I took my first bus ride. I was with my grandfather and we went to the fair. He promised me a pony ride, cotton candy and a pogo stick. Instead, I got an elephant ride, a candy apple and a slap on the mouth when I called him a big fat liar—there were no pogo sticks.
I shifted in my seat as the bus stopped and eager passengers entered and scrambled for the remaining available seats. The high school kids took it upon themselves to block the aisles with their over stuffed school bags and giant egos.
A passerby who pushed his way through the crowd bumped my shoulder in the process. I cast a sideways glance only to discover an all too familiar face staring back at me. He smiled and raised his hand in a slight, apologetic wave as he continued his trek to the back of the bus. I nodded and only half smiled and turned my head to look out the window.
The snow fell gently and the field looked as though it was heavily sprinkled with confectioner sugar. He and I ran carefree through the freshly fallen snow. It was late and we were alone. We threw snowballs at each other and laughed. He chased me and when I was finally caught, he wrapped his arms around me and kissed me. He caught snowflakes on his tongue. I caught a cold.
The scent of my mother rescued me and returned me to my seat on the bus. Not of her perfume, but the scent of her. I slipped two fingers through the collar of my shirt and loosened it from my neck. I looked around. Surely my mother was not among the many passengers who now filled the bus like sardines in a can.
Someone I knew once referred to an Easter Lily as the flower of death. I told her she was preposterous—referring to something so beautiful and sweet scented to something so dark and depressing. It was on the day that I buried my mother that I finally understood what that someone meant.
Each flower arrangement that had been delivered to the funeral parlor contained lilies primarily. Their fragrance filled the room. It was suffocating. I longed for the scent of my mother. I stood at her open casket and bent down to place a kiss on her cheek and to whisper into her ear that I loved her. She smelled. Not of her—but of rotting flesh—of death.
Suddenly my throat tightened and I gasped for air. Why was it so hot and why were there so many god damn people on the bus? I shot up from my seat and with my purse clenched in my hand, immediately started toward the door, shoving past anyone who stood in my way. When I finally managed to get out, I closed my eyes and took a deep breath, filling my lungs with the cool air. I was shivering, but it wasn’t from the cold. What started out as a routine bus ride turned out to be an invasive trip down memory lane.
I looked at my surroundings and realized I was only half way toward my destination.
“Fuck it”, I said out loud. I didn’t wait for another bus. Instead, I zipped my jacket, swung my purse over my shoulder and with my hands buried deep in my pockets, walked the rest of the way.
