Searching

There is a distinct smell to a public bus. A certain familiarity to the way in which you can feel each spring in the worn and slightly torn bench seat. You expect the grime on the floor, and feel used to, somehow, the greasy smears on the ever so slightly tacky windows. The seats seem always to be avocado, or at least something in the drab green family. I believe that the cream to beige interior color scheme is chosen for it's special ability to appear worn and dirty, despite it's true age.

It is no wonder that public transportation costs are so high, when you consider the rare and unique materials used in the construction of buses. Consider the marbled gray-green floor tiles, which are specially made for public vehicles. These priceless masterpieces cannot be obtained in any tile store.

The other passengers too are mesmerized by the elegantly appointed vehicle, sitting silently and still, the great cabin rocking them to sleep.
It's tough to focus on important things. My mind wanders, just to get away from the things that worry me. Will she be there? What will she say? Will she want to see me? It all drives me crazy, and I just stare at the seat, or walls or out the window, and make up silly stuff to pass the time.
The shops I knew as a kid all have new names. Is this what Alzheimer's feels like, I wonder? I recognize the streets, and the shapes of the facades, but the signs and colors are all foreign. How did I come to be a stranger in a place that I once called home. An uneasy feeling grips me while the buildings of downtown float by, and out of view.

Minutes go by, until the bus pulls to the curb, and hisses to a stop at the corner where I must disembark. The driver, without a word, pulls the handle next to his seat, and the door clatters open. I expect him to announce the stop, but I guess most of the passengers, all regulars is seems, know where they are, and appreciate their naps not being disturbed. I'm the only one who stands and walks down the isle and out onto the hot August pavement.

The bus pulls away, and I notice simultaneously the lack of sooty diesel fumes, and the Natural Gas Powered sign on the back. Just one more jab at the foreigner. I looked around a minute before heading down Lancaster Dr.

The mid-afternoon August sun shines down on the sidewalk like a furnace. That was one thing that hasn't changed. Sweat rolls down my temple, and my shirt clings to my chest like a wet rag. Nothing ever feels entirely dry in the Mid West in August. I stroll a couple of steps into the shade of one of the Silver Maples that line the street. There is a rich smell of newly mown grass in the air, and I pick a leaf from the tree, and examine it. It feels soft and moist and green between my fingers.

Suddenly remembering a trick from my childhood, I make a cylinder with my left hand, and place the leaf across my thumb and index finger. I slap it with my right hand and the leaf makes a delightful pop, like a packing bubble. How many times had I done that as a kid, and this is the first time it occurred to me to do it since I left the neighborhood. I smile at the thought, though it hurt a little. She had always been there to share it with. It reminds me why I am here again, and where I am going.

I start walking down the street, now noticing that the houses are more run down than I remembered. It's odd now that I think of it, but I don't remember who lived in the houses even when I left home. I'd lived here most of my life, and by the time I had moved away, most of the other families I had grown up with were already gone, even back then.

I reach the corner of Lancaster, and Liberty. Liberty looks even more run down than Lancaster. If there were any people around, I think I would actually be afraid. I had spent the years since living here in places where houses in this state would have meant street gangs.

I can see her house, down the street a little. As I approach, my heart sank. There are windows missing, and the paint is peeling badly. I stand for a moment surveying the place. There has been a lot of decay. The lawn is unkempt, and several of the trees I had remembered in the front yard have been removed. I can not be sure of the color of the house other than I knew it had changed, and I walk up to the porch to get a closer look.

There is a large padlock on the front door. Clearly no one has lived in this house for a long while. No one would answer my questions, or tell me where she has gone. No one is going to be there to show me the way. It is going to be for me to decide to continue to look for her, or to give up.

I decide to walk around the back of the place, to see if there are any more clues. Someone has put up a low chain fence around the back yard, and I am able to reach over and flip up the latch for the gate. The back yard is a disaster, overgrown, and decrepit. She used to have a nice garden against the house, but I can't distinguish anything but weeds.

Just as I am beginning to loose heart, I catch a glimpse of something red in a corner under the kitchen window. When I pull some of the weeds back, I see that it's her rose bush. Nearly choked out by the grass and thistles, but still there, and still alive. Then I search the window sill, and with a little difficulty, I can still make out the little heart surrounding our initials.

I'm not going to find her here, but I can go on searching, at least a little while longer.