October Bus Stop

Tonight I am standing at the bus stop outside Sean's apartment building, under a magnificent tree. There is no wind, and yet, leaves are falling like seconds ticking the hour down. It is almost 10:00 p.m. and the goldeny-yellow leaves stand out against the soft grey and darker charcoal shadows of the street.

I wonder, if I count, how many leaves will fall before my bus comes. A leaf brushes past my hair and lands by my shoe. I hear another leaf make a light tick sound behind me. Maybe 50? 100?

I quietly press my hand against the tree trunk. I remember how I was sitting on the wooden bench outside my school on Friday, exhausted from riding my bicycle around the city and then later picketing on the last afternoon of the strike. Mark was sitting on the bench, not very close to me, talking to another teacher standing in front of him.

I kept feeling a random vibration and was about to investigate around me when I realized it was Mark's deep voice. It was traveling from his chest to his back, into the wood, over to my body, and into my chest. I pressed my back harder against the wood and took unexpected comfort in the connection.

My bus rounds the corner and my hand drops from the tree. The bus swirls the leaves as it comes to a stop in front of me. I forget about the leaves as I settle in for a short ride home.