The bus stop

Her mind was racing. She used to see him there, sitting down calmly while talking on his cellphone; always wearing a brown fedora and occasionally caressing its side as if the tactile connection was necessary to keep him in this world, at this moment.

A pair of tired feet guided her to the familiar bus stop, a three button blue coat keeping her warm, and her heart beating slightly faster than normal… He was there, and again, they shared a glance. One throat swallowed making an audible sound, and it echoed to the place and time the writer of the story is currently at.

It was a cold late afternoon, one of those who remind you of recycled paper instead of orange and pink cotton candy. The tiny roof was leaking rain drops that accumulated up there not too long ago, and as they fell down they were serving as part of the soundtrack of silence clashing against the carved concrete tiles, along with the noisy engines kept inside the multicolored passenger vehicles.

One minute, seven months, or an eternity went by. Making her way through the crowd, a last bus of the line 27 was taken by her. He left right after that.

And it was not because he waited for her every day, it was not to see her come and to watch her go. It was not because he was struggling for courage to start a conversation with her. It was not for a certainty, that was only building inside her… No. The trip back home took him there every day, at the same hour as hers, and he had a bus to take.

And time, eventually, said it best.



It was a day very much like this days that take place between the worldwide celebrated Christmas and New Year. I’m not sure if the current days or the current feelings have let this words be.

My feet stumble on the steep hill, carried on by something like a promise of breeze in warm humid days. Such joy there is with the known laughs and voices around me, with the wild raspberries just waiting for brave agile hands that can manage the thorns and hold them hostage into mouths, with the bug bites scratching while looking at a horizon of velvety mountains and a clear blue sky.

My hands are firmly caressing the grass on the side of the hill. It’s a wonderful view, an unforgettable memory in the making, a thrill for the waterfall that I will soon get to see. But beyond all that, it’s so high. So high and the possible fall seems so endless… I have built a little bit of fear inside me, as if I were into a transparent elevator. Hold on to the plants’ roots people, and try not to look down.

There it is, before my one decade old eyes… Marvel gets mixed up with annoying sounds from other people, warning of not falling into the cold river course. Nature being herself, with herself. A virgin looking place with the power of turning every person into a conqueror of a new land in a new world. A place where piano songs are born and lovers’ sweet words are kept safe for eternity.

It’s time to go back and the water won’t stop falling until the day I will return, even if it is what it seems as we go further and further away and the water’s songs can’t reach my ears anymore. The same path must be followed on the contrary direction. The hill shrank to a shorter height and the fall seems now to be impossible. Why is this? Does every experience have something to teach? Does every path become a part of us once we cross it for a first time? Does facing fear once make it get smaller each time? Do the good things always overshadow fear?

…Beautifully and not fearless, as the walk on the hill. Eventually and slowly, as the turning of a sunflower. Strong and delicate, as the waterfall.