Commute of a Bureaucrat Mom

The pavement smells of warm summer rain – earth, slate, worms.
My toes are getting damp from the storm even within the bus shelter.
I squint to decipher the route number of the oncoming bus – yes, it’s mine.
I soldier into the downpour, wait bedraggedly.
The traffic snakes before my eyes, a Hansel and Gretel trail of red taillights.
The wipers can’t keep up.
To the right, a lightening sky; to the left, a lowering one.
The corn almost overshadows the roadsign (Ottawa has an experimental farm in the heart of the city).
I advanced everything today, and finished nothing.
I keep pushing, trying to roll the ball downhill, but it’s too big. Or there are too many – I can’t tell which.
I am on my way to house, husband and child – my second shift.
Raindrops slither down the pane, one by one; dandelion fluff sparkles.
The sudden storm pauses to take a breath.
My belly is empty, my shirt is damp, my head is aching, my body is tense, my heart is full.
The sun is shining through a curtain of rain, warming my face.
Police sirens wail someplace nearby.
The most beautiful woman gets off the bus, all ebony pearlescence and grace. She opens a red and white striped umbrella, sets her shoulders, and makes her way to her own second shift. She is a work of art.
Dearest has a hole in his tibia which may require a bone graft. But his leg still has structural integrity.
So do I.


1 comment so far

  1. Moosilaneous on

    Art: something that we give as a gift to the world, that we do with passion.
    You, too are a work of art.

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