After a month of waiting at bus stops, getting on and off the 28A and B, I have formed an indirect relationship with drivers and other passengers. Some faces have become familiar and although the closest I’ve come to knowing them has been through my imagination, I feel as though I can now call them acquaintances. Acquaintances that I may never see again or may one day get to know. I will remember these faces that spoke to me through their eyes. Pairs of eyes that said so much yet revealed very little. Eyes of sadness and painful pasts, eyes that wandered dutifully but with no purpose, eyes that sparked in the sweltering sun, eyes of bewilderment and eyes of discontent. I will remember the women who carried big purses and grocery bags, the men who sat, legs apart, leaving no space for those around them, the cigarette lady who I only saw twice. I remember some of their bus stops, where they get off, murmuring thank you to the bus driver. I’m beginning to look at life the way the bus drivers do. They look at life as a series of stops, of arrivals and departures. Life is a like a moving bus, taking us through rough bumps, sharp turns, persistent stops. And the cycle never stops, in rain or in the sun, this bus keeps moving toward destinations that only its passengers recognize.