a rugs life

It was a snowy morning and when it snows I always take the bus.

But we missed the 7:35 due to some early morning household emergencies which are in themselves another story. And we got a late start getting to the 8:10, because of the millions of accoutrements one is required to wear in the snow.

As we were finally on our way walking towards the stop, I asked myself whether we would make it in time. My daughter, so entranced with the snow, was trailing around each corner, ooh-ing and ahh-ing at the white carpeted trees, sticking her tongue out to catch flakes, and stomping on small snow banks. I trudged beside her, trying to nudge her along, thinking of Arizona and asking myself why did I not move there, wracking my brain to remember why I stayed.

When we got to the bus stop, I bravely looked at my watch. 8:13 exactly. I sighed, looked down the snowy grey street, and wondered how to spend the next 22 minutes until the 8:35, or perhaps just throw myself at the mercy of a passing taxi….

So I stood there, staring down the street in silence and mild despair. Then, through the snow, I saw something utterly beautiful and ethereal wending its way towards me.

It was a bus.

It was a beautiful gray bus, missing one headlight, listing to one side as MBTA buses often do, and spewing brown smoke out the back. And this particular bus had the lovely number 85 displayed on the front of it. It stopped right in front of my daughter and me, and its doors magically opened. We stepped into the steamy odor of deisel fumes and sweat, jubilant for a small moment in time, saved, warm, happy.