A Life Alongside

Photo by Sandy Ravaloniaina on Unsplash

There’s a man who’s always at the bus stop. Every morning, just at nine. Snow or drought. Rain or wind. When I’m there, he’s there, standing with his hands in his pockets.

While he waits, he scuffs his worn shoes against the color-drained gum stuck between the sidewalk cracks. He’s of average height, and his neutral face doesn’t stand out. Hair that’s somewhere between brown and blonde. Nearly indescribable. Yet when I’m on the…