We’re all going places, all have different views on life and how its cogs work and turn and keep us moving forward. Each strip of asphalt, with its lines and markers and tire stains, either brings us that much closer to comfort and understanding, or takes us further away from what our souls wish for the most.

The view out of the grimy bus window somewhat dims my view of the passing landscape, but in no way diminishes it--if anything, it only serves to add to the wonder and awe of a landscape untouched by mankind, saved from the tarnish of industry and modernity. The snow-capped mountains in the distance dwarf the evergreens and wildflowers lining the highway==their peaks seem to reach and stretch for the heavens, straining and yearning to touch what can’t be attained.

The bus is overcrowded, and hot--children cry and squirm in their mother’s arms and old women tiredly readjust their Easter hats, procuring bits of paper and old church bulletins from their purses in an attempt to fan away some of the excess heat. Men flip lazily through newspapers they’ve read six times before, blankly skimming over bold headlines and advice columns. A young woman clutches the photograph of a soldier in her hands, carefully running her fingers over its glossy surface, an unvoiced wish for a gentle embrace and a safe return.

The woman next to me is nodding off against my shoulder, content after recounting to me tales of her grown daughter, whom she hadn’t seen in years--she was going to visit her, and see her grandchildren for the very first time. She didn’t have any pictures with her, but was able to describe each of them in full detail, right down to how many freckles peppered each of their noses. She smiles in her sleep.

Wildflowers sway in the draft from the bus, dancing and waving in the breeze.

I am five, and my grandmother is leading me through her garden. The smell of roses and jasmine envelop me, wrapping me in their warm, heady embrace. Ivy and wisteria twist and grow together on trellises and through the wrought-iron bars of the garden’s fence, separating me from the outside world, as if I’m in a fairy tale all my own. I watch my grandmother water amaryllis and buttercups and trim back the protruding branches of her lilac trees. Her hands are aged and worn, but careful--they tend to the flowers and vines and trees with the same gentle touch that holds me when I cry, and comforts me when I’m sick.


She picks a rose and threads it into my hair. Its petals flutter in the breeze.

We pull up at a bus stop, snow-capped mountains beginning to fade into the distance. The old ladies pile out of the bus, clutching their Easter hats and makeshift fans as if they’re expensive collectables. They all file into the bus station, sighing and exclaiming thanks and praise for the cool, conditioned air inside. The men refold their newspapers for the tenth time and slowly shuffle off of the bus, grunting and complaining and stretching. Some wander off to waiting cars while others pick out a bench in a fair bit of shade, readjusting themselves there and unfolding their newspapers for the eleventh time. The young woman simply switches seats on the bus, still clasping the photograph in her hands. She kisses it.
Moments later, a young boy boards the bus with his grandfather, laughing and joking as they take their seats across from me. They are followed by a hippie--she has flowers braided into her hair, a tambourine, and a guitar case littered with stickers and glittery peace signs. She curls up next to a window, and procures a tattered copy of Silent Spring from god knows where. A group of young, chattering mothers climb aboard==they all glare and cast rude glances towards the hippie and sit as far away from her as possible, whispering and pointing and shaking their heads. The bus pulls away, and once again I am enamored with the wildflowers and trees and mountains in the distance. Even though they don’t seem as large and menacing as they did earlier, the mountains still convey a sense of power--looming in the distance, their peaks and ridges and valleys a testament to the strength and willpower of the natural world.

The woman next to me shifts in her sleep while the boy and his grandfather press their noses against the bus window, and begin a game of I Spy. The boy blurts out clues in rapid succession, barely giving the grandfather a chance to comprehend the first clue before he moves on to the next--the group of mothers all laugh and praise the boy for being overly innocent and adorable. The hippie pulls a notepad and pen out of her guitar case, and begins to take notes on the novel==the mothers all roll their eyes, and mumble continued insults under their breaths. One of the mothers pulls photographs out of her purse and begins to brag about her children, which leads the rest of the group to dig frantically through their bags in a search for proof of their children’s accomplishments. The boy and the hippie are forgotten, in favor of awards and saved report cards brandished like the kill from a good hunt.

I roll my eyes. The hippie laughs.


I am fifteen years old and grandmother is drying my tears, laughing at the imagined slights of a teenager suffering through the latent effects of puberty. You don’t know pain, sweetheart; you’re far too young, she says. I shake my head, and turn away. Grandmother knows nothing. She laughs again and takes my hand, leading me downstairs to the kitchen. I sit at a stool and watch her hobble towards the stove, pulling flour and lard from the cabinets and buttermilk from the fridge. Come on now, help me make biscuits; it’ll get your mind off things, she says. She sifts the flour and puffs of white powder fill the air, homemade clouds in a sunless sky. She hums as she works, forming biscuits the same way she’s done since she was a child. Grandmother motions me over with a flour-coated hand. You try, she says. I smile.

Thick gloomy clouds roll across the sky like waves, bunching together in dark masses, jolts of lightning announcing their union. The young boy shrieks, and curls up in his grandfather’s lap--this catches the attention of the group of mothers, who discard their photographs like trash and coo and awe over the child’s naive fear.


Thunder roars in the distance, and I can feel the sound reverberating off the bus windows. The young woman jumps, and clutches the picture of her soldier just a bit closer, as if even a trace of his presence will comfort her during the storm.
Drops of rain patter against the windows, clearing away some of the dust and grime. Drizzle soon becomes a downpour, making it all but impossible to make out anything in the distance--the mountains disappear from view, replaced by the sounds and strikes of an angry thunderstorm. The woman next to me still has not stirred. The hippie has turned away from her book, lulled to sleep by the drone of the bus’s engine and the thrum of raindrops hitting the roof. She looks peaceful.


I am twenty years old, and I am afraid. Clothed entirely in black I stand at my mother’s grave, unable to throw my handful of dirt onto her casket. It’s raining, but I don’t care. The droplets have matted my hair and stained my dress, making the fabric cling awkwardly to my legs. I am cold, but I don’t care. Mama will never be warm again, either. Grandmother takes my other hand, and squeezes it--her hand is warm, while mine are colder than ice. It’s okay, she whispers, the Lord needed her more than we did. I tell her it isn’t okay, that I don’t have a home, that no one is ever again going to be there for me like mama was. Grandmother kisses my cheek. You always have a home with me, child; I will always be here for you, she says. She carefully tosses a rose into my mother’s grave, one I’d watched her pick from her garden just this morning. She’d spent over an hour walking through the rows and around the trellises, looking for just the right one--she’d feel the petals of one flower, shake her head, and move on to the next. Your mother would have done the same for me, she said. Grandmother might know something, after all.

I throw my handful of dirt into my mother’s grave. Grandmother cries.

The bus pulls up at another stop, and the group of mothers sigh in relief. The rain has since stopped--the skies have opened up to reveal a rainbow, all the more bright and beautiful after such a torrential downpour. The mothers all file off of the bus, giving the hippie one final glare and hmmph before each going off to their waiting families, smiling and waving goodbye. The young girl steels herself, briefly hugging the picture once again before gathering her things, and heading off the bus. There, on the sidewalk, is her waiting soldier--she throws herself into his arms, photograph thrown to the wind like a useless advertisement. It flutters to the ground, and I can see the soldier mouth I love you to the girl--pure happiness seems to radiate off of her, almost palpable in the hot summer air. The soldier takes her bags and carries her to his car, and I can see her smile even from this far away--it’s more brilliant than the rainbow ever was.

The grandfather leads the young boy off the bus, joking and laughing just as they were before, fear from the storm completely forgotten. The hippie is still sleeping--curled up next to the window, her guitar case acting as a makeshift pillow. The woman next to me wakes, and excitedly beings chattering about her daughter and grandchildren again. This is her stop--she quickly begins to gather her things, pulls a suitcase and an overnight bag from under her seat, and straightens her dress. She takes her things and wishes me the best of luck--tells me I’m the sweetest girl she’s ever met, that she hopes the rest of my travels are safe and sound--and exits the bus, easily finding her daughter and grandchildren in the crowd.

I wait for the crowds around the station to disperse, and exit the bus. I am the last passenger off. The bus pulls away, rumbling back onto the highway, further and further away from the mountains in the distance. There is no car waiting for me--I take a taxi, thankful for the relief from the stifling heat of the bus. The taxi pulls away from the station and I watch the landscape roll by, endless farmland and forests ahead of me. The driver makes no attempt at small talk, leaving me to comfort and entertain myself.
An hour passes, and it is late in the afternoon by the time the taxi pulls up outside the old church. The white paint is crumbling, and ivy crawls its way up the windowsills--grandmother would have never seen it this way. I take my things and thank the driver--he insists the ride was free of charge, but I give him a small tip anyways. The car pulls away and I walk around the church, following the smell of roses and wildflowers--grandmother would have wanted it this way.

They are still digging my grandmother’s grave--two men tirelessly breaking the soil apart with shovels, carefully avoiding the flowers as they toss it aside. Flowers of all varieties adorn the ground around her grave, spilling out of baskets and pots and ribbons, filling the air with a fragrance so sweet it’s almost offending. I am early, but grandmother would have wanted that--I take my time looking over each flower, carefully turning the delicate petals over in my hand. I have to find just the right one.

After grandmother is lowered into the ground and the men begin tossing the dirt back into the grave, I throw my rose onto her casket.
I am twenty-five, and my grandmother knew everything.

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