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.


Starts with the 12th and the 15th

Put on a brave face now, hustle your step

Sing not in the frequency matching my soul

Pack up your bags and come downstairs

It has arrived with dawn, the time to go

Forget it all: truths, lies, facts and acts

Weep not one more time, miss the glow

The treasured memories were overrated

Dreams did not have the chance to grow

What it may have been and what it really is

Do not fool your eyes covering what is known

Unfold your wings, sail tempestuous skies

Listen to the wind whisper, this was not home


Where is home? Quoting a saying, is home where the heart is?

Some people venture to live very far away from their mother land because of work, study or adventure. But that doesn’t necessarily mean they left no loved ones behind. Some are lucky enough to find love and create their own new families in the new lands they discover, but that doesn’t change the fact that some other very important people are miles away.

Sometimes, there is a feeling inside of us telling us to go to another place, because that’s where destiny is waiting for us, because where we are doesn’t feel quite like home. There will always be a split in our hearts between the memory and longing for those people who watched us grow up wishing nothing but the best for us, and that itch somewhere inside of us rushing for a life lived at it’s best potential somewhere else.

Personally, I have experienced guilt because of having dreams that irremediably lead me away from my grandparents, parents, siblings and family in general. Yes, there are phones, internet, airplanes… but it’s not quite the same.

In a place where family is very important, and in an upbringing that makes it nearly impossible to imagine not living close to family… how do you choose? How are you brave enough? How do you embrace the possibility of creating a family of your own somewhere else, or maybe not having that chance at all, but you still feel the need to explore the rest of the world and find home out there?

Home is where the heart is, the thing is: the heart can be in so many different places at the same time.