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Thursday, February 2, 2012

Waiting for Her Bus.

Every day on my way to work, I see a girl standing at the end of a long dirt road. She is probably a sophomore or junior. She has dark brown hair, usually in a ponytail, and stylish glasses. She wears jeans, sneakers, and a jacket or sweatshirt. Most recently, she was wearing a pink pullover. She stands with her hands in her pockets, backpack on her back, toes pointing forward (no hip-thrown-out attitude), and watches the highway. Nothing in her posture indicates worry or reluctance. She just looks ready to go to school.

This is all I catch as I pass her at 55 mph. I have no idea who she is or what school she attends. I don't know if she has read any of the books I've read. But I think that if I didn't see her one morning, I'd worry about her. I've sometimes made up names for people I don't know but see often. I think I'll call her Merrin (That's the name of an ex-boyfriend's sister. The stigma is his and not his sister's, and it's a pretty name). Whatever is on my mind as I pass, whatever little secret shard of hurt has suddenly pierced me, whatever nameless fear or caving loneliness might grip my neck, I see Merrin waiting, quiet and ready, for her bus, and I know that I can go on and do what I have to do.

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