Lately people have been offering me their seats on the bus. At first I was pleased by these unexpected gifts. Then yesterday a young woman next to the window leaned forward and said, "Would you like my seat?" and I realized the truth. She saw my graying hair and
(more) saw me as a senior citizen. A senior. An odd feeling. I am 52 but inside, as Anais Nin was wrote, I am "still every age I have ever been." I don't think of myself as middle-aged, may never, so as nice as the offer was, I turned it down.
*
I commute three hours round-trip by bus so spend a lot of time observing people. The road to Burien seems full of potholes and I can't seem to read so I watch. I get to know patterns. One rider works at McDonalds, has a gold M on her crispy ironed blue cotton shirt, and carries herself with pride. Sometimes her two children are with her. When she gets off, I look for the arches and I never see them but I know they must be nearby. Another rider has leather Nike sneakers I covet. I know I see him frequently because I recognize the shoes. Yesterday on the morning route, he ate a peanut butter sandwich, his long legs spread out, a quietness about him I liked. There is also an elderly woman who carries an assemblage of bags, neat and organized. She bends over, almost asleep, and I worry she won't wake up for her stop but she always does--gets off in the middle of nowhere. Where is she going?
*
Last night I dreamed I was a teenager. My mother came out on the front porch just as I remember her--with gray hair but carrying a shotgun.
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