The Bus

Kirsten looked down at her feet. Her eyes bore into her dirty Chuck Taylors without really seeing them. Her eyes filled and burned as she refused to blink. One thought ran through her mind over and over. She could think of nothing else. Not her upcoming birthday nor the end of another school year. While visions of swimming pools, beaches, parties and the paradise of summer sped through the minds of every other teenager, Kirsten felt trapped within the prison of one word: divorce.

“Mommy,” a young voice fumbled in the din of mixed cadences.

Kirsten’s body was jostled by the bus braking for another stop, and though the small voice didn’t stand out further than the rest in the crowded vehicle, it shook her trance. Kirsten blinked and listened.

“Hm?” a sweet voice answered.

Kirsten was sure she was the only one paying any attention to the woman and her young companion. Blocked from her view by other passengers, she focused on the sound of their voices by shutting the others out. The swaying movements of bodies gently rocked by the bus’s travel worked to lull her into numbness.

“Are we going to see Daddy today?”

Kirsten swallowed hard, tears threatening once more. “Daddy” was one word she wasn’t prepared to hear. Daddy was the one who broke the news; Daddy was the one she’d probably lose; the one she would miss. Sure, he’ll be there for the big stuff, maybe. Birthdays, holidays, graduation.

The sweet voice fumbled for words, and the woman cleared her throat.

“Yes, sweetie,” it whispered, barely audible.

But what about my first date? Driving lessons? The Prom? Will he miss those? Kirsten thought about Saturday mornings with her father’s pancakes, weekend camping trips, and Sunday comics. They were lost to her. Everything changed when they sat her down in the family room. A discussion, they called it, but it was anything but that. It was a sentencing, a punishment.

Kirsten blocked her thoughts and focused on the voices of the little boy and his mother . Any distraction from the pain of the unknown future was a welcome one for the teen. She turned her face to the window beside her, watching the street flow by in a blur.

“Do you think he’ll like these?” There was a rumpling of cellophane paper and a floral scent reached Kirsten’s nostrils. It teased her senses and grappled with her memory. There was something flitting about her mind, struggling to the foreground of her consciousness.

“Yes, I think he will,” returned the mother with a sad bitterness. Her tone also inspired recognition in Kirsten’s thoughts. She heard a similar tone in her own mother’s voice, though it didn’t reach as deep.

“He likes lilacs, huh, Mommy?” A flash of the purple bloom sparked before Kirsten’s eyes. She recalled their garden back at home. Home. The word felt foreign.

“Yes, he did-, I mean, he does.”

Kirsten’s thoughts turned sour. Lilacs, she thought. Dad gave Mom flowers just last week. Was that a gesture to keep up the lie? Were they trying to trick me just a little longer? Why didn’t they tell me there were problems? Kirsten gritted her teeth and lifted her chin against the emotions which threatened to overwhelm her.

Why are they punishing me? was the thought that entered her mind for a brief second before it was interrupted by movement in front of her. The family of two began to gather their things as the bus slowed once more.

“Does Daddy miss us?” the inquisitive boy asked, his endless questions unfiltered by the restrictions of age and experience.

“Yes, I believe he does.”

The bus stopped, and the hiss of opening doors sounded above the voices of the crowd. Kirsten took in a breath as realization hit her. A robotic voice called the stop, barely heard over the oblivious throng of travelers.

“St. Mary’s Cemetery,” it spoke.

Kirsten looked up suddenly, her eyes trying fiercely to focus on the family, but they dissolved into the mass of people. Kirsten’s heart dropped at the thought of their pain, and it ached for them. As the vehicle started moving once more, Kirsten’s mind slowly embraced the thoughts she’d been avoiding. Shame spread within her for a few moments as she recalled her recent emotions.

Maybe I can get through this . . . , she thought slowly. Maybe we can.



Word Count: 736

Written for "The Writer's Cramp"  [13+]
Prompt: Write a story or poem about a conversation overheard on the bus.