This morning the alarm rang three times before I finally summoned the strength to get up. The cats were scratching on my bedroom door. There was food in their bowls but apparently it wasn’t good enough for them so, in their subtle way, they asked for more.
Before I boarded the bus to work this morning, a woman who I’ve seen countless times spoke to me. Something about having to go to work because someone had called out sick. Apparently this person’s sick outs have become chronic. “At least there’s more money for me,” she said with a smile. I agreed.
On the bus, a well-dressed woman vacated her seat several times to use the bathroom. I think she was unwell. Her companion thought otherwise. He admonished her for her frequent trips. She sat there silently, her face covered in sweat, and took it all in.
The road to New York City through New Jersey on a weekday afternoon is a quiet one. There’s never enough traffic to cause a delay. The green foliage whisks by the window as the bus travels at a steady sixty-five miles per hour. Occasionally you’ll see a New Jersey State Trooper handing a speeding ticket to a sheepish driver. Nothing to see here. Move along.
In an hour I will be in The Big City. The quiet will be replaced by the hustle and bustle of people coming and going. Cars, trucks, and buses will challenge each other for superiority. The tourist will fight to fit in. The natives will fight to be on time.
I will experience it all without you and that always makes me a bit melancholy. I wish I could bottle it all up and send it to you.