Woman On The Bus
Perched upright, with a stony, ice cold demeanor sits a woman
reminiscent of a staunch, stiff lipped, wide eyed school head mistress.
She turns her head sharply and with a menacing look, catches me glancing,
looking at me through gritted teeth with a “you boy” stare, as if I had spoken
in class during silent reading.
Dusky pink lipstick daubs her pale pallid, wrinkle laden face as she takes a small gold pocket mirror from her handbag along with blusher and green tinted eye shadow applying delicately, checking and rechecking herself.
These self same actions are repeated on a daily basis every morning when
I board the bus, there she sits, same seat, same time, bold and non-encompassing of the world around her.
I ponder why she is there, my thoughts wondering aimlessly on who she is
and why she is there, where does she go?
Finally I summon the courage to speak to her, “Hello” I utter in a trembling, shallow voice hoping that she wouldn't eat me alive.
Her sullen, teary eyed appearance paints a painful image as she proceeds to tell me of her daily pilgrimage to her late husbands grave where upon the headstone reads “A man amongst men and a hero to all.”
The next day she clasps my hand in a vice like grip as I escort her upon her request to visit a man who died fighting in the second world war, my own tear stained face a reflection of the question I had dared to ask, who was this seemingly sour, distant, tough as leather, stone faced woman on the bus.
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