Things from My Commute

Google Maps says my commute is 32 minutes, door to door, but I don't think I believe that. Going from my apartment to my workplace always feels like it takes longer, especially in rush hour traffic, sitting crammed into a bus seat with a stranger reading the paper, waiting to get downtown, to the office where I work. No amount of lead-footed bus drivers can make that feel faster than it really is, and no amount of fast walking protects me from the blistering Minnesota winter.

“At least, I hope so.”

A woman wearing a gray hat and a navy parka stands next to me at the bus stop. She has her hands on her collar, holding it up against the wind, as she waits. The man next to her wears a shorter, red puffer coat, and no hat. His ears are pink from the cold. He stands silently as she speaks. Both of them wear backpacks, a signature of the bus commuter.

I look away, both curious about what they're saying and embarrassed to be listening. In the street, a flash of red catches my eye. Next to the curb is a forgotten hat, red and black with a pom-pom on the top. It's damp from the snow, ruined from the road salt. I'm suddenly more grateful for my own warm hat, pulled low over my ears.

At that moment, the bus pulls into the stop and the three of us hustle on, eager to be out of the cold and wind. We're the first stop of the route, so we have our pick of the seats. I snag a window seat a few rows back from the back exit, on the right side of the bus, so I can watch the scenery. The driver slams the door shut and we lumber off.

Ahead of me, the pair continues their conversation quietly, their heads tipped toward one another carefully. People start filtering in and the bus gets more crowded. I lose sight of the woman in the navy parka and the man in the red puffer.

I find myself thinking of the pair on the ride back to my apartment, wondering what they're hoping for. A break in the weather? A promotion at work? A speedy recovery? I'll never know, but I enjoy hoping with them — for them — as I look out the window. It's golden hour, and the light is hitting the pavement just so. The sea of parkas and puffers on the bus no longer feels as depressing, as suffocating.

Instead, I find myself hoping, too. Spring is coming. At least, I hope so.