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In transit, we all share a transitory existence

Posted by Heidi Schudrowitz on Dec. 3, 2009

bus

I saw Santa driving a bus today along Wisconsin Avenue. He was wearing a red hat and his white beard flowed out beyond his chin. The bus lights read "Holiday Wishes."

I see a lot of interesting people on the bus that takes me to and from work - people who make the ride interesting, if not predictable.

Like for instance, the young mothers who are towing tired toddlers and sleeping babies in baby carriers - on their way somewhere. How hard it must be for them to be caring for little ones.

Old men with canes, cigarettes tucked behind their ears, hands folded in their laps. What are they thinking about?

Old women, scarves around their heads, reading paperback novels, their lunch bags on their laps. How long have they been riding?

Teenagers too cool to sit next to me, standing at the rear of the bus, fiddling with their music players while they are swaying in the aisle as the bus lurches down the street home from school. Riding still beats walking.

Professionals, noses to the newspaper, oblivious to the noise and commotion. The stress of a long day with demands from a boss or customers or coworkers shows on their faces.

And me, staring out the window at the holiday lights that adorn dilapitated houses and buildings in Miller Valley, twinkling in the dusk as my bus makes its way west on a cold, dark winter night. I'm just another face on the bus, with my own worries, thoughts and dreams.

We're all different, but we're all in this together.