Abbey ~ Between the Stops

They must have been close to the water, because that's where the trains are. Even over the whirr of traffic on the road and the twittering conversations around him he could hear the long, low whistle of the train. It was a language of one tone and one message, slow and spread thick like the finger-painting of a sleepy child. It called out with a counter-cultural patience; beckoned to the artistic spirit with billowing smoke and bellowing sound. He lifted his heavy eyelids and looked out the window. He couldn't see the long line of cars all held together with iron and prayer, but he heard its lifted voice again and smiled. It sounded like home.

In the city, life was stacked on life in tall buildings - people packed so close to each other and yet physically paper-thin walls are functionally miles thick. The opposite was true in the plains: acres and acres dropped between neighbours was barely enough barrier to be noticed.

The bus pulled over and a young girl in a patterned hoodie stepped aboard. She moved down the aisle as lightly as a ghost, making no sound and attracting no eye except his. He looked at her but she faced forward firmly. Either she couldn't see him, or she was choosing not to. Everyone rushing, rushing - far too busy or important for archaic notions of community and relationship. Discouraged, he returned his gaze to the world beyond the window.

The horizon here was still so unfamiliar to him, even eight months after his move. So little land made up the landscape outside; skyscrapers raced upwards to block out the heavens, a rough wrought iron fence against the natural realm. At dusk, tiny lights illuminated the darkness - but they weren't free to flicker and move the way that fireflies could, back home. Lightening bugs, like street lamps, shone bravely into the swallowing black - but they were a very different sort of beautiful than the orange-yellow haze found here.

The bus forked right and scuttled away from the waterfront and the trains and all reminders of any old-fashioned ways. He closed his eyes again and fought against the homesickness climbing from his heart to his throat. Fatigue mixed in with nostalgia and old grief was a powerful depressant, and with work to do in the here and now he couldn't allow himself to drift into melancholy. He cleared his throat and shook apart the knot of emotion lodged so close to the surface. He picked up his thoughts like a wayward child and redirected them to think about Abbey, instead.

Abbey was the reason he had moved east in the first place. She was his anchor in this city, to which all of his heartstrings were tied. She was a beautiful, entrancing creature and at almost nine years old she was the cleverest Scrabble player he had ever taken on. And she was his sister, for whom he would have moved to the moon if asked.

Abbey moved in with Liam and Sarah four months after the accident. The will had disclosed an agreement between his mother and Sarah that, should the worst, they would welcome the other's family with open arms and warm hearts, unless the children were old enough to care for themselves. He was seventeen and already off at school; she was almost nine and needed a home that he couldn't provide. Sarah was an aunt by all but blood and she moved West for the whole term, away from her own family and home and life, so that Abbey could finish the year with some kind of familiarity and order. He had moved home too, and the three of them grieved through the shock together. When summer came and everything that could be sorted out had been, Sarah and Abbey flew back to home and new-home. He followed a few weeks later, found an apartment near by and started the process of transferring his degree to the local university.

"You could try out a dorm," Liam had suggested over dinner one night, "since you didn't really have one out west. A bigger school will make it a bit harder to start up a social base, if you live alone."
He shook his head. He didn't want Abbey even visiting one of those dorms; she was still far too pure.
"You could live with us," Liam continued. "We just don't love the idea of you being so alone."
"I am alone," he said.
"You're not alone," he said.

So they found a middle ground and Liam moved in with a house full of young guys from his program. He'd answered a flyer, how cliché. Wanted: young, quiet, studious guy. Not too good looking, we don't want competition. Funny is allowed, though. Call Brian, Chris, Steve, Tyler, Alex, Adam or Kent. No, we're not dwarves. Only one grump. It was working well, so far.

With school through the week and a couple of shifts at Subway in the evenings, Abbey-Day was on Saturday. Liam and Sarah took her (along with four kids of their own) to church on Sunday mornings, so he would often pick her up on those afternoons as well. A day and a half, just the two of them. Sometimes they would go for walks around the city and try out different bakeries. He took her to the zoo once just to say that he had, and every other week or so when it was his turn to cook at the house, he'd bring her home and all of his housemates (without an upcoming exam) would teach her how to play cards. The whole house had kind of adopted her, and she was developing quite the little poker face.

Today, though, was a tough one. It had been a full year, and he had been thinking for a long time about how to handle their visit. Sarah had hinted that maybe they should just stay in for a change, but tradition held and she would be waiting for him, just three stops away. They would walk, he'd decided. They would walk all the way back to the train yard and let each other cry about home. Then he'd take her for Moose Tracks ice cream, like Dad used to whenever they had tripped out to Ontario for a visit. And then... and then they would come back to Liam and Sarah's and he'd pull out the books filled to bursting with their parents' photographed memories. They would cry, but they would cry together and fight the bitterness away with story. It was what he thought she needed. At least, he needed it.

The bus slowed down and he gathered up the bags that he had settled beside him. They were heavier than all of his textbooks combined, and far more valuable no matter what his bookstore receipts had to say. A beautiful little face greeted him as the doors spread open, and she reached out to take one of the bags. "Are you ready to go?" she asked. He passed down his backpack and balanced the rest before hopping off. The evening air felt fresh and he felt his spirits lift as he met her eye. "I am," he said. "Let's go."

Lalia ~ Between the Stops

"Are you starting today?"

She wondered what had blown her cover. Was it the white-knuckled hand-wringing? The nervous pulling at her poorly fitting uniform top? Her name badge in its perfect perpendicular position? She nodded and thought about offering a handshake, just for the practice, but opted for more shirt tugging instead. 

"It isn't even my first job - just my first new job in a long time. I bet I look like a rookie." The other woman, maybe fifteen or twenty years older and wearing a uniform that looked much more worn though just as clean, nodded reassuringly to the blonder version of her younger self. The name Lalia was embroidered just below her left shoulder. "You'll be fine," she said. "Even if you stumble through the first day, tomorrow will be more comfortable. A couple of spaghetti stains on your apron will do wonders for feeling like you belong. Deep breaths when you need them; head tall like you know what you're doing, even when you don't. You'll be fine."

"Thank you," she murmured and shifted her attention out the window. The bus had pulled over to one of the stops at the farthest reach of its route. The bus driver called back over a rather crackly loudspeaker that there was a scheduled ten minute delay in their trip, and if anyone would like to hop out for a smoke they were welcome to join him. Two or three young guys from the front followed off the bus, and a girl from their party swung her legs up to the newly vacant seat beside her, hugged her knees and nestled into a light doze like a bird. Her breathing visibly slowed in a matter of seconds; peace in the midst of chaos.

"I hope you planned ahead a bit better than I did," the older lady piped up, as though the five-minute lull in conversation was nothing more than a pause for breath. "I forgot about the stop here by this old school. I usually catch it on the return, but I was worried about it filling up with kids going off to class, so I jumped on before. By the time I realized this bus doesn't even go up to the college, I was already aboard. But just think! If I'd waited, maybe I wouldn't have talked with you! Everything happens for a reason, I say. I do always say that." 

The young woman looked down at the phone in her hand and checked the time. She tisked her tongue quietly, without opening her mouth and without looking up. The older woman was chattering like a wind-up toy that used the last few movements of its mechanical momentum to turn its own key and begin again.

"Be glad that the buses are so quiet right now. I used to work the really early morning shift; I'd be up at three and to work by five, coffees in hand. The girls and I used to take turns getting it, but eventually the task fell to me because I was the only one who didn't need it to get it with a smile! But some people are just morning people I guess. Believe it or not, those crack-of-dawn runs are some of the busiest of the day!"

"Don't work mornings anymore?" She asked in a tone barely inflective enough to confirm that a question existed at all. She wasn't really paying attention.

"No, not since my son left for school. Working in the mornings was great when he was little - gave us the afternoons together and we both hit the hay early. Then suddenly he wasn't little anymore! Got tall, like his father was, and popular in the same fashion. When he went off to school he got wrapped up in the typical college scene, staying up all hours like an owl. When he did come home, his body couldn't adjust and I ended up never seeing him at all. Since it's just the two of us, that didn't fly for long. I figured it would be a lot easier to change my life than his, so I took an afternoon shift and now, when he's home and not out drinking with friends, we stay up and talk. Unfortunately, he comes home less and less. There's a girl, you see."

Activity at the front of the bus drew everyone's attention. The guys who had gone for a smoke returned to their seats, except for the boy who seemed to be with her; he had tried to, but his seat had legs all over it and moving them proved a war. The sleeping beauty who had so peacefully drifted off minutes before jolted and snapped forward at him like a viper when he dropped one of her feet back to the floor. She shouted at him, he yelled back - not for long, but snake fights rarely take much time, once the venom is loosed. The viper had suffered the bite of a larger predator. As she stormed to the back of the bus her lightning and thunder melted into the poisoned rain of embarrassment and hurt. She curled up again, once a position of rest now an armoured shell.

Lalia sighed. The boys at the front of the bus laughed and punched each other's arms and sat down just as the driver returned to continue the route. Had he witnessed the scene he would have likely stepped in. One more reason not to smoke.

"I worry about this with my son," she said sadly. "He is so much like his father. My Rod never could see the pain he caused and I'm afraid it's a trait that Sam learned to mimic as a child. It's been a while since Rod's gone, but so much of his influence still lingers. If Sam was closer, if he brought this girl of his around a little more, then maybe I could remind him to be gentle. He tries though. At least he tries." She looked back at the girl tucked into the corner, shoulders shaking from more than the rough road beneath them. 

"It was nice to meet you today, hun, but I think that I might be on this bus for her, not for you. Will you excuse me?" With a smile, Lalia took up a seat beside the girl and spoke in whispered, caressing tones. Although she didn't move, her breathing gradually evened and she opened her eyes. Lalia put one hand on the girl's calf and gave it a pat. The girl's tears returned, but they were different -- no longer laced with anger, all toxins gone.

The bus climbed a hill and passed a Macs Milk store. Her stop was coming up, just on the other side of the highway, and in a few minutes she would be waiting on tables and talking about which special she would recommend to the complete strangers who sought her advice. She signalled her request with the yellow cord and looked back at Lalia who had the girl laughing now, cheer and tear blended and smeared with the make-up on both of their faces. Maybe that was the real difference between their uniforms. Hers, un-wrinkled and crisp was prepared for presentation and performance, as was her attitude... but Lalia's, with softened edges and smoothed creases resembled a nurse's scrub, even with the cropped black apron of the food industry. She didn't just wait on her strangers -- she cared over them. 

As the bus slowed down across from Kelsey's, Lalia took a little piece of paper from her pocket and pressed in gently into the girl's palm. Then she stood, gave the girl a maternal kiss on the top of her head and returned to the doors. 

"Fancy that," she said, rubbing mascara from under her eyes. "The same stop all along." Thanking the bus driver, she hopped off and headed toward the crosswalk. Part of Lalia's story flashed into mind; she said that her son had patterned his life after his father's from childhood. She didn't have a mom to mimic... maybe this loving, chattering lady would do. "Thank you," she called to the driver who tipped his hat and closed the door as she ran to catch up to her newest acquaintance. And the bus rattled off again.

Kelly ~ Between the Stops

Ten minutes of rain without an umbrella had let loose her curls and streaked the foundation that covered her face. Another morning wasted with the fussing of hair and careful application of liners and blush. Why did she bother? Why did any woman bother with such nonsense.

She should have seen it coming when the radio played the same song twice in a row. Even if it’s a good song, twice in a row is a bad start as far as organization of a day is concerned; it makes you second-guess yourself, tricks your mind into believing you have more time than you do, throws your subconscious for a loop as though your whole life has skipped like a scratched CD. A few minutes later she discovered the fracture in her cereal bowl, responsible for the leak that had silently soaked a pile of history quizzes that she was in the middle of marking. She had been taught early in life not to cry over spilled milk, and so she held herself together right up until she knocked the table trying to leave and her coffee cup dumped its contents into her lap. A few angry tears followed in the aftermath while trying to speedily spot clean her cream coloured cotton skirt that she eventually abandoned for denim. It was a grim forecast from the start, and the weatherman had yet to open his mouth.

It is amazing how we can survive through even in the most wearying of seasons; we learn to invest in deeper things than rouge and curls, and we find purpose that runs at a much deeper level than circumstance can determine. It was, for her, the kids that kept her going. Every morning as she crossed the threshold of her classroom door, the bright orange gateway to adventure and discovery that had been the bearer of her name placard for seven years and counting, every morning she was met with 30 brilliant reasons to keep waking up. They brought all emotion into her life: joy, grief and meaning. Students were a transient sort of family with faces always changing in season, but they were family, and she poured her heart into them without reserve.

But this morning, her heart (not yet at school and not yet focused on the more important things) tripped over her hair. She twisted the front pieces between her fingers and pinched hard, willing her locks to lock in place with inevitable failure. “It looks okay. Don’t worry about it.” The voice that came from a few rows behind had caught her off guard and she spun around with a start, scanning the seats over twice which at first glance had appeared to be empty.

The camouflage of an urbanite is not made of the greens and browns readily associated with the term. To blend into the city you must adopt the plumage of muted vibrancy, of patterns so outrageous that they climb over you like an artificial ivy and smudge your features into the moving mural of the city scene. Kelly had learned the art by osmosis, the way that you do by growing up in a place. She could fade, blend, almost disappear with an effortless decision to do so; she could adopt the attitude of invisibility as literally as any mystical cloak, and once under its protective shield the world could not touch her.

She had been hiding four rows behind her teacher. Hiding from her, if truth be told. To see a teacher outside of its native context is an alien encounter that requires a carefully calculated approach. She had spent several minutes in observation, watching in absolute stillness; she was a veritable chameleon in her zebra-print overcoat and retro green headphones. Unnoticed. Unnoticeable. 

The teacher had clambered aboard the bus with a furrowed brow, cursing with her eyes at a newly torn hole in the back cuff of her jeans. The hem was sopping wet and hanging on by a few frayed threads. Her emotions seemed to match. She had taken a seat somewhat absently, and Kelly couldn’t tell if she had yet noticed the tangle of leaves caught in her hair. It didn't seem to bother her; she was preoccupied with a pair of tendrils hanging down limply from her forehead. Time had come to emerge from the metaphorical foliage. “It looks okay,” she said, loud enough to get her attention. Then more gently, “Don’t worry about it.”

Recognition wasn’t instantaneous, but it only took a moment for the young teacher to catch her bearings and make the mental switch. “Good morning, Kelly! I didn’t realize you lived over here! Are you headed to school too?” Her cheerful voice might have been a semitone too jubilant to come across as perfectly sincere on such an obviously sallow day, but her smile was genuine. Kelly pointed vaguely to the left side of the bus. “Mom and I moved into an apartment a few stops back last year. City bus is faster than a school bus, so I catch this one and do my…” After a short pause she finished her sentence rather bashfully, “…my homework,” she confessed, “about twenty minutes before class. It gets done though, honest.” Professional persona in place, she suppressed a mirthful expression that might have been called a sort of chortle, had it been given the freedom of exposure. She cocked one eyebrow instead and half-rolled her eyes. “As long as it hits my desk, we’re okay,” she said, and took a red-felt seat across the aisle from her young pupil.

The bus was nearing the school, but its route would take them farther from it again and tour around the residential neighbourhood before stopping across the road from the cafeteria entrance. She could walk from the next stop and save herself between seven and twelve minutes, but nine minutes longer with this girl might be more important than coffee brewed before the bell. She resolved to follow Kelly’s lead.

It wasn’t often that a child would overlap in her classes. On only eight occasions had a student been held back in the history of her school, and only once – well, twice – under her care. The school board frowned on extremely high class averages as much as failings, and most teachers danced, curved and nudged the numbers to meet requirements if they could, but some children have a knack for monkey-wrenching even the smoothest of systematic gears and cogs. Curtis, her first rebel, was a kid bent on breaking every teacher he faced off against. He was angry and strong, like the rock-dwelling rams you might see on a commercial for the Discovery Channel. Every September he would lower his head and charge full steam into the Principal’s office. Once he did this when the door was closed, an act that earned him an overnight stay in the hospital and a month of passes to see the nurse. But he wasn’t an idiot, contrary to popular opinion and school report card records – Curt was scary smart and a talented manipulator. The first two terms with him in class were a migraine inducing torment, in mild-mannered vocabulary. He had almost broken her spirit by third term, and then a miracle happened: they studied law. Lawyers became an obsession for the boy – to twist and connive and massage truth to serve a positive end was a nearly inconceivable idea. He bombed every course except History that year, settling at a frightening 27% overall average. Arrangements had been made to transfer him into another class that would “cater better to his particular developmental needs,” and she had to fight to keep him. The paradigm shifted a few weeks into their second year together and Curtis progressed by leaps and bounds. By mid term he was rivaling the self-identified geniuses, and joined the debate team. He was sharp and competitive, and led them to the provincial championships, proudly bringing home a silver podium-shaped trophy that Curtis presented to the Principal, in his office. All three of them had a bit of a cry that day.

And Kelly was the second, although her situation was somewhat different. Last year she had taught a split class at the small elementary school. It was a seven/eight split, with only a handful in the lower grade. The schools make it sound like a random draw when students have their classes chosen, but in reality it’s a carefully orchestrated collection of kids. She had the best possible set up for a split class – the over achieving of the lower grade, and the rougher-edged older ones who might benefit from a naturally slowed pace. For the most part the lessons were divided, but on occasion when the classes could be combined for the bulk and then tailored away from the chalkboard such a set up served the greatest number at the greatest efficiency. But last year Kelly’s family took a couple of hard hits and she stumbled towards summer in obvious pain. Kelly would stay in from recess from time to time and dissolve into tears at her desk. “Teacher” became a blend of much more last June – mentor, friend, pseudo-mother, tutor, guardian and advocate were unofficially added to the list by graduation, and when Kelly requested to be in her class again this coming year, in the upper half of another split class, her request was heard and honoured by the faculty. She was the only one of the Sevens that stuck, but it had been a good decision. There was a distance between them this term, old classroom social boundaries reestablished, but this tough little girl was one of the special ones.

The bus rolled past four stops without so much as a pause. They rode on in silence for a while, both lost in similar memories. It wasn’t the strained or awkward quiet felt between two unfamiliar acquaintances trapped uncomfortably in the same taxi or cue, it was the silence that almost folds into a sigh of relief and security, and that warms with each moment gone by. Kelly looked over and smiled. “Ryan started walking a couple of days ago. Mum says that we’ll have to start locking everything up now. But he’s kind of a bit more human than he was, now that he’s standing up on his own.” Ryan was Kelly’s toddling nephew, a beautiful baby boy that she had met on a couple of occasions after school when the girl’s sister had been given the charge of picking her up. “That’s an exciting change! There are probably a million things you can’t wait to teach him. There’s definitely a bit of a teacher in you, Kelly. And coming from me, I hope you can take that as a compliment.” Kelly nodded and picked at one of the many buttons that tiled her backpack. Then she stood and pressed the red alert button on the yellow poll near the door. “Wait,” she said, and quickly walked back to her teacher. She reached up behind her a bit and with swift fingers untangled the twigs that had matted her hair. She pulled a bobby-pin from her pocket and tucked the two limp tendrils back off her face. By the time the bus had stopped, still a few blocks from the school, Kelly was at the door again. “Thank you,” said her teacher. Kelly turned, just before she hopped off the bus. “No,” with a slight shake of her head and a penetrating look that directly affected her heart, “thank you.” Then the seriousness in her eyes blinked away. “See you in class,” she said, and hopped off the bus.

A young dad with a little one clinging at his hip like a koala boarded and sat just behind her where the seats faced into the bus instead of ahead, towards the driver. The boy was buried inside of a snowsuit, gurgling and giggling as he stared out the window. Children: none of them were hers, but all of them felt like they were. She lived and breathed for these little jewels of heaven and, for their love, however sparingly awarded or fleetingly felt, she would happily walk in the rain every day of her life.

Isaac ~ Between the Stops

She had imagined this conversation somewhat differently; his look should have been more disarming, perhaps – or her words more full of life, or more charming, or cleverer. It wasn’t an unpleasant dialogue, but the magnetic attraction she had prepared her heart to resist was not there. He was simply a friend, and it seemed barely that.

What had she expected, then?

…Static. The kind that prickles down your spine, that you can feel in your knees, that sparks an involuntary smile and a slight tremor in the heart. Instead she had experience the sort of static that comes with a radio station just off frequency, the distracting grey blur of bad wiring in a television set, and the immobile static of a long, uninterrupted, uninteresting wait.

And then silence had fallen upon them like the layer of gelatin glaze on a cake or flan; everything that was to be said had been. It was nice, and now it was concluded. Topped off. Only the consumption of the cake could change it now… or the dropping of it.

She averted her gaze. She had been staring at him as she thought these things, and he looked back at her with a passive curiosity, without saying a word. Wordlessness was a bad sign.

The bus lurched forward and she let her bag down to the floor. She picked it back up. A bag on the floor implied something – a desire to stay still, an exhaustion of strength, apathy, a defeat of some miniscule measure. Slung over one shoulder, the bag returned to its accustomed home. He looked on. No words.

The silence echoed itself and seemed to stretch their shared five minutes into unbearable epochs of time. He shifted from one foot to the other and casually said nothing. All of her thoughts, carefully edited and processed, sounded flat and mechanical to the audience of her mind, and so remained unspoken. The bus stopped again and the people crowded on, pressing them a little closer to each other.

She had been waiting for this moment for nearly four years – to talk with him alone, to have his full attention – but all this time she had thought him so different: chatty, inquisitive, energetic, funny… she thought he would be everything she remembered about him from classes and group gatherings. She thought . . . she had hoped . . . but maybe not.

The bus made three more stops before Riah climbed aboard. She waved enthusiastically from the front, paid her fare and danced her way through the people to meet them. She brought with her an incredible flurry of conversation.

“Ah! Girl, I was hoping to meet you today! Did you get my text yesterday? My phone has been acting up like the three-year-old it is and I can’t believe how many messages it has decided not to send, just to spite me, I swear. I hope yours works better than mine! Wow is the bus ever stuffy today, and not just with people, I mean this air is so… I mean, thick, you know? Like a musty old sauna but without all the cute swimsuits, unfortunately. Seriously, someone ought to crack open a window in here! Oh, that reminds me! Guess what I found stuck under one of my windshield wipers this morning? A parking ticket! The city booted my car! Outside my own building! That’s why I’m on the bus, you see – set off the City Hall. But… sorry, am I interrupting something?” She took a breath, barely pausing long enough to flick her eyes in the general direction of the boy standing near by. She continued with a shrug.

“Well anyway, I paid for that spot right before I went in, just to shower you see, and then I came right back out! Must have caught me just a minute after it expired, but then those parking signs can be so confusing to read, never you mind how long I’ve lived there. I think the traffic people will see it my way. I have a knack for persuasion, you know. Mother always thought I’d make a great actress, but I told her, ‘the Law is for me!’ Pretty similar in the long run, I suppose. Just a different sort of stage,” she winked. “By the way, have you seen the advertisements for the new Shakespeare flick? You really must go with me – I can’t think of a single other person who would care for the right reasons. Say you’ll come?”

Riah’s hand darted into her pocket and pulled out her phone. She read something quickly and began to type a reply. Her lips moved along with her mind as she wrote; it would take a few seconds for her to reorient herself.

“Riah, this is Isaac,” she interjected as soon as the phone snapped shut. “He’s a friend I met at school; Isaac, Riah. I can’t remember just how I met her, but she’s a doll. Not a bad cook either, but if she ever offers you a cookie, pass.” She winked at her friend who threw her hand to her forehead in a playfully dramatic pose.

“Alas,” Riah proclaimed, “My one major flaw and you just won’t let that story die! One time, and it wasn’t even that much garlic. I didn’t realize it was flavoured margarine, you see.” He laughed freely, and the two girls joined in: a moment of pure relief.

Her friendship with Riah worked well; Riah was a wild gypsy of a girl, if gypsies would ever be caught in stiletto heels. She wore feathers in her hair, bright makeup and dark lips; she gave you three doses of caffeine just by proximity; she was a prattling fool, an exotic beauty and an adventurous, head-spinning mystery; she took life in both hands like a microphone and rocked-out. She was awesome.

Isaac seemed simultaneously mesmerized and overwhelmed by the creature that had burst into their quiet encounter. He also seemed to be weighing his options of whether to interact or simply observe their conversation. Riah decided for him. “So, tell me a story, Isaac. What brings you to the bus today? I’ve got to get off in a few minutes though, so you’ll have to keep it brief.” He looked up and to the right for a quick recall. “I’m on my way to meet up with a couple guys from class. Were working on a project all day.” She tipped her head to one side, just a little. “What are you working on?”

It was the same polite blueprint that had begun their conversation ten minutes ago. She was feeding him questions, leading the dance, modeling each step with the graceful nod of her head. He followed each move perfectly: a good dance partner, except that he was on the back-step.

How many nights had she mooned over Isaac Lamb? How many hours tracing his name like a child, day dreaming of a few minutes company? In her secrets she imagined his confession that he too had been watching, that a secret somewhere in his heart there was a place reserved for her. What a fantasy. What a nonsense it all seemed now.

Riah was tugging at her sleeve and saying her goodbyes. “Nice meeting you, Isaac. Good luck with your group thing. And – hey, space cadet – yes, hi. Text me back some time, okay? Talk soon?” And she was off.

“Your friend is …well, kind of intense, isn’t she?” he smiled at her. She searched his face for any sign of a hidden subtext in the words but found none. No codes in his eyes today.

“Yes,” she replied with a wave out to her friend. “She’s a bit of a crazy, but in a good way. I met her at a protest of all places. She was protesting, I was trying to get to work. I don’t know how it happened exactly, but I ended up holding a picket sign for nearly three hours. Ended up being pretty late for work, too. We hit it off so quickly that we’re nearly convinced we must have met before, so it’s a bit of a joke between us that I don’t remember. Truth is, of course, she’d be a difficult person to forget.”

“I believe you,” he said. “She definitely leaves an impression.”

Stop, stop. A woman pushing a stroller squeezed past them and Isaac helped her lift it off like a gentleman. The mall was coming up soon and they would both be getting off. She looked at him and smiled. He smiled back. No words.

She wanted to tell him everything. She wanted to confess the past four years of wishing he would strike up a conversation, that he would send her a letter, walk her somewhere, sing her a song on the guitar she knew he could play. She wanted to tell him about the talks she had had with her sisters and friends in which he so often took feature. She wanted to tell him she liked him, but instead she just smiled. “See you later,” he said, pleasantly. “See you,” she said.

Off the bus and walking away, their whole lives seemed to be going in different directions. But …maybe there would be another day for words. 

Rachel ~ Between the Stops

The little girl looked up at her father with a smile in her eyes.

“Rapunzel had pets, you know.”

They were on their way home after going to town for cereal. It was Mom’s birthday tomorrow and both of them were determined for everything to be perfect from the moment she woke up. The day had been completely planned out; breakfast in bed, a morning of board-games and old movies, and in the afternoon they were off to Grandma’s and Grandpa’s for dinner and tea. In the business of getting the day all set up and trying to make sure that Mom didn’t make any conflicting birthday plans of her own, Dad had forgotten to pick up the most important part of their special day breakfast routine: Cap’n Crunch. It was the little girl who had noticed the problem, and so, right after Dad got home they made a special father-daughter trip into town.

“What kind of pets does she have?” her father asked, returning her smile.

“A rabbit and a dragon!”

“Oh, wow! I wish I could have a dragon! Then I could ride on his back instead of taking the bus home.”

The little girl gasped aloud and her eyes opened widely. “Daddy! Dragons have fire!”

“I’m not afraid, sweetie. I could bring lots of water with me. And I think we might get home a lot faster if we had a dragon to ride.”

The little girl seemed to ponder this for a moment and in the space before she wrinkled her nose and shook her head slowly, time seemed to lean back, as it sometimes does, and he marvelled at his daughter. Her long lashes seemed to batt open and closed in slow motion, concealing and revealing again the deep, bright blue of her mother's eyes. It was like staring into a whirlpool of thought, those eyes. He swallowed a sudden urge to well up and dropped his gaze to her pink-velcro sneakers. He smiled. When it came to footwear, there weren't two tastes more opposed. Her mother would never have been caught in stockings and shoes in this weather. He shook himself back to reality in time for the inevitable nose wrinkling.

“No," she resolved, "you can't come. It’s a purple dragon.”

Her father laughed. “Well, that’s okay,” without missing a beat, “I’ll just spray-paint him black.”

“Black! Oh, no Daddy, not black!”

“Not black, eh?” He chucked gently at his daughter’s horror. “Well, what about... what if we colour him like the rainbow?”

Suddenly all of the concern in the little girl’s face melted away, revealing the wonderful smile of childhood’s simple joy and a laugh that danced through the air between them.

“Yes! That is a good idea! That would make the dragon very happy!”

The little girl’s laugh was contagious. A couple across the aisle from them couldn’t help the smiles spreading across their faces as they glanced over at the child, not-so-secretly eaves-dropping on their conversation. The creativity of such an innocent heart is hard to ignore.

“Well, I don’t know about happy, but he sure would be multicoloured.”

The girl’s gaze dropped from her father’s and down at the large, colourful cereal box tucked between them on the seat. Then she took a moment to smile at the bus-driver who smiled back with a grandfatherly grin.

“Could we colour the dragon Daddy? Could we draw pictures on it and colour it however we want?”

“Of course we can, darling.”

“And it will have pink!”

“And blue?”

“For Mommy’s birthday!”

They were talking about Rachel, of course. She had jumped into the role of both wife and mother only two years ago - a leap of faith, both feet and full heart. His baby girl didn't know anything different, as far as mothers go, but hearing the title come from his little one with such love still caught him. Her mother had died when she was only eighteen months old. She had barely learned to use the word, but his precious first wife had heard it a few times, tumbling out of their toddler's mouth with the stumbling, crinkled concentration of a first year Latin student. Oh, the blissful laughter of those first few weeks in the world of words. And then she had gone. The doctors told him that she had been carrying the aneurysm in a dormant state all of her life, unaware. They said it had been a "merciful death," quick and without suffering; but his grief and shock did not heal quickly and he suffered for years, alone and lonely... except for his little girl. She kept him going. She gave him hope in his despair and strength in defeat. She revived in him the will to love.

He met Rachel a few days before his daughter turned three. Tipping and toddling no more, his little girl deserved to graduate from his often lopsided attempts at birthday cake to something that more physically reflected the celebration at hand. He flipped through the yellow pages, checked on Google, scanned the paper and eventually determined to wander the shops downtown until inspiration found him. And she did. Rachel was a veritable muse in her apron. With dark hair, dark eyes and dark skin, "muse" might be a misleading title -- until you saw her art. It framed her as you entered into the little patisserie; towering cakes and sugar flowers so life-like you can almost smell them, marzipan models and modelling chocolate figurines, cupcakes with whole paragraphs of script in the icing, and a hundred other delights vocabulary can't capture. And she stood, smiling at him as his eyes took in the room. She welcomed him to the counter with the same familiar airs of a hostess, ushering personal guests into her living rom and telling them to make themselves at home, and would anyone like a lemonade? She was warm and friendly, and she had honest eyes.

Ordering the cake took about four minutes, but he hovered there at the cash in happy, easy conversation until the bell over the door chimed and another customer came in with three children underfoot. When he stepped back onto the street an hour had passed and the rest of his errand-running was a scramble. Forgetting the Cap'n Crunch during a pre-birthday shop seemed to be as much a tradition as eating it for breakfast on the morning a year is gained in the life of this growing family.

The last-minute make-up trip to town that followed in the morning proved to be as much of a distraction, taking another hour longer than he had planned; thirty minutes were spent pacing in circles around the corner from the cake shop, deciding whether or not it was silly to check on the progress of an order that she promised would take her two days. He decided it was silly, and the next ten minutes were spent walking laps from the corner to his car, changing his mind back and forth. Eventually he had gone in, with almost no reason and with little to contribute but a blushed nodding in the presence of the beautiful woman behind the counter who was pointing at sketches for his daughter's cake, and prattling on about one or another new recipes she was going to try.

When it came time for the little party he had arranged -- mostly friends from work, their wives and kids if they had any -- the bakery masterpiece was shimmering with sugar dusts and looked like an elaborately embossed Christmas card. "Are you able to come and pick it up? Or, if you'd like, I could come and drop it off for you? I've got some extra time on my hands today, and I really wouldn't mind." So she came, and stayed; she played with the kids, made friends with the women, made fun at his expense, just a little. He liked her.

And so did his daughter. This now five-and-three-quarter-year-old lass by his side had taken her time to adjust to a "Mommy" in the home, and even after they were married it wasn't a generously used name. This little exchange on the bus wasn't the first time he'd heard the title used with so much love, but each instance was still so special to him. Little girls have a way of melting even the most grown-up of hearts.

Her father reached high up above the little girl’s head and tugged at the yellow cord.

“What do you say about making Mommy a card when we get home? A birthday card, out of really big white paper and I’ll draw a great big dragon on the inside? Then we can colour him like the rainbow with pictures of whatever we like for Mom’s birthday, and no black anywhere.”

The little girl laughed a wonderful, happy laugh that seemed to light up the whole bus. At the next stop, the little girl’s father stood up tall, took their box of Cap’n Crunch under one arm and offered his other hand to his daughter.

Hand in hand father and daughter marched up the aisle and thanked the bus-driver for their ride. Then, with a quick smile to each other that glowed of great friendship and mutual adoration, they hopped off the bus and onto the sidewalk, both dreaming of Mom’s special surprises and the stories they would be able to tell in the morning.

Jakob ~ Between the Stops

She had found his photograph in an old book, at the Library.

The book had been in the selling room, a space set aside for the frayed of binding or loose of page, or the subjectively deemed "dull of content." This little annex of the old brick building was the last hope for the worn-out printed works, stamped "discard" with a heavy black ink. If they remained too long here, they would be recycled... not on to another bookshelf for a new pupil to absorb its wisdom, but to the blue bin, the mass grave of all abandoned codex. Most of the books in the room did not appeal to her; many were the encyclopedic chronicles of sports history, or dime novels stuffed with sensation and not much else, or plotless textbooks now long out of date. Most of them were old-ish, which in the world of books was akin to a hot-ish plate of pasta, or a funny-ish comedian at a club. It was the really old ones that caught her attention, with a simple cloth cover and the irresistible smell of aged paper. It is a treasure most uncommon in such places, but when you know what you're looking for, a keen eye can sometimes find a hidden or neglected two or three.

The spine of the book with the photograph was a dead give away: the cloth cover had let loose at one end and beneath the fading burgundy material, the telltale font of newsprint was revealed. She lifted the volume delicately, as a mother lifts a sleeping child, fearful of waking the infant and yet entirely unable to resist the pleasure of holding a baby at such peace. The book was extremely old, and not in English. Opening to the frontispiece, she scanned for a date. 1828, Berlin.

The German language is something few in her city were likely able to pick up and read, but it was the style of the printing and the formatting of each page that gave her the clues she needed to puzzle out the mystery. She was holding a Bible. She purchased the book before she asked her questions.

"It is most certainly a religious work of some antiquity!" quipped the woman standing behind the desk, turning the pages with reverence. "Although, I don't believe you have a full Genesis-to-Revelation account here. More likely it is a very old commentary, on "Lucas" and "Johannes," or Luke and John. To confirm, I suggest that you refer to a computer, and one of our language translation software programs. You can find them over there, in the "D" section." She thanked the librarian and returned home without the recommended double-check. It took her a few hours of uncomprehending meandering through the pages to find the photograph, but when she did it was like the whole world fell spellbound into the gaze of the young soldier staring out from the frame.

He was dressed in the Canadian uniform common to paratroopers in the Second World War. His whole form looked strong and quite handsome; he was a man of perhaps thirty years, his face full of bravery and fire and the lacing softness of human compassion. She was struck by how much his expression conveyed. He looked resolved, apprehensive, hopeful, cautious, full of a welling love, and something else that her young heart couldn't label at the time, but would later call wisdom.

The black and white picture featured a house and a garden in the background behind the man. There was a mailbox among other things, flag up, with numbers on the side that couldn't be read because of the angle of the camera. Was this his home?

She picked up the photograph and turned it over in her hands. On the back, in a simple scrawl, was the phrase, "Gott ist souverän," and lower on the Polaroid, "Meine Liebe, Jakob. Juni 23, 1940." She flipped it back over and took a closer look at the man's face, re-examining the details of his setting. There was a suitcase in the frame, leaning against the mailbox post. It was a hard-covered brown leather piece with a key and snapping front clasps. Centered near the handle was the word, the name, "TAPFER," printed in block letters. 

Jakob Tapfer. And that was enough.

It was enough to drive her back to the Library, to the microfiche and the war archives. It was enough to find him on the memorial that had been set up in town to honour the men who died serving overseas. She learned that he had been in several small attacks before he died in an invasion known as "Operation Market Garden," in the Netherlands. Almost a month passed before she thought to look in a phonebook. Something about the picture compelled her to return it. However it came to be at the Library, and then into her care, she somehow knew that it was not hers to keep.

There were three Tapfers on her list. The first was a young woman who had recently moved up from Toronto, and had no connection to the family from the local papers of years gone by. The second number forwarded to an automatic voice message about vehicle rental rates and insurance. A man named Jakob picked up on her third try.

She stumbled through a clumsy explanation about finding an old book in the Library, and the photograph that led her to calling, and did he know of anyone by his name that served in World War II? The silence that followed felt chocked with emotion. Slowly the voice returned. "You... found one of her books?"

She listened quietly as Jakob Junior, the son of the man whose photograph she held, told her the history that newspapers ignored. "My mother was pregnant with me when he left. She used to say that he was a true Tapfer man, very brave. She said you could see it in his eyes. She loved him so much." He recounted, in brief, the history of his father that he had memorized from the cradle, the story that his mother had told him all of his life. "He was part of the Canadian Forces, enlisted early on to fight with the British Allies because he was already parachute trained. It had been a thrill in his youth, and he had learned the skill at home, only thirty minutes from Arnheim, the place he died. Both of my parents grew up in Kranenburg, you see. They moved to Canada in 1923 and became full Canadian citizens in 1934 and 1935, mother and father respectively. Neither entertained dreams of seeing their home again, but when my father left for War, he wrote that he thought God was going to take him home. And He did, twice; once to the airs of Arnheim, and then quickly to his heavenly place."

She listened without interruption for nearly two hours, completely absorbed by the passion and pride with which this man told his father's story. She learned that his mother, Sonje, had gone Home too, about a year ago. When her apartment had been sorted through by Jakob and his wife, they found none of the books or letters or anything else they expected her to keep. Months later they came across receipts for the rental of a small storage unit, under her second husband's name, but when they contacted the managers they were told flatly that, "anything unpaid and unclaimed for more than six months, whatever it be, is sold as a lot at auction." All of his mother's treasures had been given away from less than a hundred dollars. "We worked hard to track down the buyer, but once the sale has been made it is a very difficult process. You are the first to ever track us down."

So she offered, as she had planned, to return the photograph and the book it came with. After all of the story telling and reliving of the past, it was this act of kindness that overwhelmed him and his voice broke down into sobs. His wife picked up the receiver and arranged the details of a visit.

All of this had led her to the bus ride she was now taking. In a city as sprawled out as North Bay, the public transportation system is an important, if sometimes tedious, vein. The route was familiar, but the stop was not -- which is why she was so intently focused on watching the road signs out the window when the turnip hit her ankle. She didn't like to swear, and she had worked hard to keep her vocabulary clean, but when something as pain-inducing and unexpected as a rolling rutabaga breaks into your reality, the subliminal cultural training we have received sometimes slips out, entirely without our permission. As she bent down to tend to her pulsing foot, she knocked into a man behind her and set him off balance. He began to topple, just as someone reached out and caught him, under arm.

"Ethan!" she said with surprise, moving to help him right the man, apologies to both tumbling out of her as she struggled to orient herself in the moment. "Oh hello there, pretty girl," he said with a grin, "and where might you be off to with such determination? I've been standing here for nearly ten minutes, feeling very much ignored." His grin had swayed into a smirk. She smiled.

"I'm going to meet a friend," she said, careful about her verbal footing, unsure of how much she wanted to share right away. He caught the reserve in her voice and pulled a face. "Is it quite serious? Your other boyfriend, right?" She rolled her eyes as the bus pulled over and a few people hopped off between them. "It's a new friend," she said, deciding not to explain the adventure just yet. "I'm returning a book."

But then she thought about Sonje and Jakob. Life, her heart reminded her, is a fragile thing. She looked up at her man, smiling down at her face. Would she, in time, press his picture between the pages of her favourite book?

The bus pulled over at her stop at just that moment. Between closed doors and open doors, her mind had changed. "You know, I could use a bit of company after all. Will you come?" She took his hand. "Sure," he said, the grin returning, "But only if I can carry your books."

Sora ~ Between the Stops

The little guy was bundled up in "Classic Pooh," a brown snowsuit checkered with green; the combination of his pulled-down toque and tightly wrapped scarf almost buried his beautiful Native face. He might have been two years old, but no more. "Paappy," he said, pointing up at an advertisement on the ceiling of the bus. It was a Near North Crime Stoppers poster; one of Lynn Johnston's contributions to justice. The dog was looking proud of himself with sunglasses and a piece of bad-guy pants between his teeth. The father smiled, more at his boy than the poster.

"That's right," he said, all smiles, "a puppy. And there's a truck."
"Twuuk?"
"Yep."
"Twuk."
"Another truck, yep."

This dad was young, maybe twenty-three or -four. He had tattoos on his neck and he was wearing a collection of rings, though nothing on his left hand.

It's an undeniable truth that the world doesn't play by the same rules that it did even one generation ago. The pleasures and privileges of marriage have moved far beyond the laws and vows of the Church. But with love and sex comes risk and responsibility -- pressures that a marriage is built to withstand while informal relationships so often are not. It is in the crisis that character is exposed. As he held his baby boy, standing beside him on the matted red fabric of the bus seats, it was obvious: this was a man.

He was born on a reserve and would have grown and died there if not for the patience of a good teacher who loved people and refused to give up on him. He had graduated from the local school and moved to the city for college, working with passion and focus. It was in this new place with nothing familiar that he found his Sora, his beautiful birdsong who could speak the language of his soul. She surrendered her body; he surrendered his heart. It was the mysterious first submission -- the first of many to come.

The night he found out, Sora was already home. She was leaning against the bathroom door, quivering and in tears, with something clutched in between her fingers.

"Niinimoshe," he said with a soft concern, "what is wrong?" She could barely respond. In broken whispers, "Nimaanendam, nimaanendam," was all she could manage. He held her as she cried. They cried together. In that moment of crisis a man was born.

He had finished the semester and quit the program, found a job and did not leave. As Sora's belly filled with their child he could hardly conceive of the dramatic changes going on in his own heart. Every physical change was matched by a growth in the spirit of this newborn family. He loved her to the point of bursting. He loved her to the point of sacrifice.

The following seven months were a shift in reality: he learned to be calm and still, learned to hold his temper, learned to sing, just a little, the way his father and grandfather used to. "Gi zag gin, gi zag gin, niabinoojivens gwiiwizens, gi zag gin, gi zag gin, gi zag gin." Every day his heart was woven closer to Sora. They were one beautiful seminole, and no cloth could be more beautiful than she.

The bus pulled over to the side of the road. Three students clambered up, teetering boxes of groceries that included two cases of Kraft Dinner, a couple frozen pizzas, potato chips, Honey Nut Cheerios and a turnip. The turnip seemed a little out of place with the other purchases he could see,  but it made him smile. The bus driver was just pulling away when suddenly a pair of flailing arms seemed to leap out of nowhere. One of the arms, attached to a frazzled looking youth, banged on the bus door and the huge vehicle slammed on the brakes. Although the bus had only started moving a moment before, the halt was jarring and the repercussions numerous: his child lost balance and fell face first into his lap, bumping his little head off the seat and bursting into tears; the turnip dislodged from it's nest of junk food, bounced down the aisle, knocked over an unfortunately placed stack of binders in the fifth row and smashed into the ankle of a girl standing by the back doors; the girl cussed instinctively and bent down to rub her ankle, misjudging the distance between her posterior and the cane of the elderly gentleman standing behind her, who was preparing to get off the at the next stop; with his support gone, the man buckled at the knees and would have fallen, had the bending girl's boyfriend not been there to catch him from the side. It was an awkward few seconds and few looked with a smile at the kid who boarded in the aftermath.

"There, there, bear," cooed his father, righting the child and holding him fast 'round the middle. "You are a strong little makwa. You'll be all right." Their jumbled bus-fellows sorted themselves out and settled down again; the class notes re-shuffled, the turnip retrieved, apologies offered and accepted all 'round. His boy-child calmed in the embrace and his cries melted into whimpers, whimpers to coos and coos to smiles again.

Calamity always stirs people up in funny ways. So often the surface of who we are, the polished mask or persona that we intentionally present to the world, is carefully covering something truer that restlessly hovers below; like a tarp covering just a little too much wood, something is always at risk of exposure should one corner be firmly tugged. Simple moments of confusion, like the unexpected application of the breaks, or the tripping over a doorframe, or the dropping of keys can shuffle the world in such a way that our perfectly tucked edges are loosed and the mess of our lives is revealed. Suddenly the world can see the precarious balancing act you had to preform to stack the wood in the first place, and you lose control of your secrets. It is for this reason that a beautiful mask should not be the hope of a life lived. It is for this reason that you must start at the bottom of the pile and build up strong, cord by cord.

As the old bus rattled off again the man smiled down at his son. The child seems bored with the little odaminowaagan he had been carrying. "Here's something new to see," he said, reaching into the backpack on the floor and coming back up with a small square box. He opened it, facing the boy, and the clean, winter sunlight caught the gem perfectly. The refractions danced around the bus, dazzling the eyes of the little child. "It's for you mother... wiidigendiwini-ditibininjiibizoring. What do you think of that?"

She already held his heart. She should hold his life as well.

The ring went into his pocket instead of back to his bag, as he stood up and signalled for the next stop. It wasn't a special day, but it was the right one. He lifted the child up to his hip and gave him a tender kiss on the cheek. They were beautiful, the two of them together, hopping off the bus and into the snow. The three were better still: a woven fabric, rich in texture and colour, and life; a true family; a promise unending.

And the old bus rattled off again.

Stephen ~ Between the Stops

Everyone could see that they were in love. It was written all over them for the world to read; written in their clasped hands, on their smiling faces, in their eyes. He loved her and she loved him and they talked pleasantly, so easily, as though they had been loving each other in this manner without trouble or hardship since they had exchanged their promises in the little country chapel, almost sixty years ago. Their relationship had not always been the blissful dream that they had imagined from their honeymoon days, but they had always leaned on each other through the turbulence. Somehow almost sixty years had flown by in a wonderful blur of fashion changes, rock music, Pampers and bunk beds, college applications and the throwing of rice, and then another more recent round of Pampers as their children's children were handed over for a few days at a time. It had been a happy, love-filled adventure together so far. What would the next sixty years bring?

The bus pulled over to the sidewalk to pick up another elderly couple who smiled and waved as soon as they boarded. The gentleman tipped his felt fedora to the bus driver - an original hat from the early thirties, the kind you had to crease yourself with regular use. The bus driver tipped his imaginary cap in return and waited patiently as they shuffled back. The first couple had moved to the back of the bus where the seating was better for four. Everyone took a few moments to catch up, the men about their women and the women of their men, and then with a knowing pause their conversation fell to Stephen.

Stephen had been a mutual friend from the days before the dinosaurs, when school was affordable and people came into fame and fortune by really accomplishing something or by the work of their hands and the sweat of their brow. The three men had been great pals from their youth. "Well, Jim was there too, but nobody sees him anymore. But he was there, old Jim."
"Right," nodded the other man, "but nobody sees him anymore."
"Right."

They let a few more stops pass in silence. A heavy beat passed before the dialogue of a father and daughter nearby drew their attention to lighter things. They all smiled.

"Do you guys remember when Stephen and Jane tried hosting a formal English tea for all the kids in the neighbourhood?"
"Oh, heavens! The Brinkman boys started a food fight with the scones!"
"Little squares of butter all over Jane's poor dog. He was never quite the same."
"I remember one year for Stephen's birthday Jesse and Hannah took all of his left shoes and re-gifted them to him one at a time, wrapped up as pretty as ever. Jane laughed for days telling us that story. Stephen pretended to be miffed at the whole affair, but I'm pretty sure he loved the attention. Wow, I miss those kids. I haven't seen them in ages."
"Well, you'll see them in a few minutes, darling. It's just a shame that it's a visit under these circumstances. Jesse's whole family will be there today. We should get together this week and make them some dinners. They'll have plenty on their minds the next little while without the added stress of cooking for all those little ones."

Three more stops passed and the bus turned a corner into a grocery store parking lot. The driver opened the doors to a young teenaged couple who took the first set of empty seats. The boy was trying to get her attention but she shook him off and stared out the window in a tight-lipped silence.

The elderly man took the hand of his still-beautiful bride. Age had not withered her mind nor faded her spirit, thank God. Time had served only to specialize his affections and deepen their love. She leaned over and kissed his cheek. She felt the same.

The tall church steeple could be seen towering over the town, reminding everyone of its importance and centrality. It would have made Stephen happy to know that his life would wrap up in the same place it had really begun. The son of the pastor who married Stephen and Jane would give the service today; quite a coincidence, but Stephen wasn't a man who believed in happenstance. Jane had taught him to trust God in even the finicky details of life and he frequently credited his Heavenly Stage Manager. It was nice of Him to write his hero such a romantic exit.

The light and abrupt "ding" of a pulled cord announced the nearing end of their journey. As the bus coasted to a stop the elderly gentlemen took the arms of their wives, not so much physical support as emotional comfort. It was always a very hard thing, growing up and growing old, but laying a friend to rest forever was a horrible twist indeed. At least for the left-behinds. Stephen had always believed all those old hymns he sang so often. If he had it right, the angels would be tending to him and his lovely Jane would be with him again...

Heaven...

As the bus doors opened he let go of his wife for a moment as she stepped down onto the curb. He was not prepared to let go of her forever. He couldn't bear the idea of letting her go and never again taking her arm or holding her hand or sharing her love. Maybe it's time to put some thought and conversation into the whole heaven thing Stephen used to go on about. Maybe it was time to take a lesson from his friend's life and death before he followed to the graveyard.

He stood staring at the open door of the church from the open door of the bus, and still holding the yellow rail. He looked down at his wife and, taking her hand again, he vowed once more to lead her, off this bus, through this world, into this church. Perhaps not for the last time.

The old man's eyes seemed to glisten with both joy and remorse that he couldn't find the balance between. A tear rolled down his cheek, over the weathered mountains and valleys of his face that had seen so much, laughed with such bravery, cried in vulnerability and now smiled once more upon the love returned in the eyes of his wife. It was a tear that she didn't understand, but would be explained before too long.

Almost sixty years with this woman.
And there was still so much to talk about.