By Parson Thru
Riding the commuter bus, 173, back towards the city, hanging from a handrail, tired, worn-out, looking at the setting sun and thinking of the times I’ve ridden airport buses to hotels in Italy and Spain; how those rides had lived with me throughout the year, keeping hope alive until the next escape.
Passing by the same untidy landscape: scrubland, commerce, concrete car-parks, all beneath a wash of evening sky streaked with silken cloud and coloured by the sun, I think about those rides and how they kept me going through the years of monochrome monotony, bringing colour to my dreams.
These are long, weary days, teaching 8 till 7; travelling from class to class by Metro, bus and tram; eyes sore and aching; throat dry and tight; unable to communicate. I think about my bed, an hour away at least.
Then I see those scenes of hope rolling through my mind; a vision from some guardian; dreams replayed from years gambled in a game for better times.
The bus swings, bumps and cuts an arc into the Intercambiador, Plaza de Castilla, hissing to a stop beside the Metro. I place the rucksack, heavy, on my shoulder; step down upon the sidewalk with the rest.
A voice tells me: “This is home”.