--- title: "Bus Stops" description: "As was our routine, I plopped down on the grass and made myself comfortable. Every time I did it, flopping down like a limp noodle, I could hear snickering in…" url: https://www.independentpress.com/article/bus-stops date: 2026-04-22 categories: ["Fiction"] author: "Dyani Palmer" --- # Bus Stops ![Bus Stops](https://images.ctfassets.net/ewtdlsoyixc1/4oHTvk1b0MSY3kJ7AQFg2X/394368b44ad5ba0c0e196f96d13ea8c2/bus_stops.png) As was our routine, I plopped down on the grass and made myself comfortable. Every time I did it, flopping down like a limp noodle, I could hear snickering in my ears that chorused with the sound of the chirping birds. There was no point in grace, the stones around me have seen worse from me during these visits. The first few visits all they saw were tears and secrets never to be repeated. Your loss fresh in my mind with no desire to grab for a safety net as I fell into grief. Now, in the past year, all that’s seen in this corner of the cemetery is me, exhausted, sinking down to the ground hoping it would bring me closer to you. I’m not worried about what you would think of my sorry state either. When you were alive, you had seen worse. You held my hand through it all just as I held yours before you took your last breath. Every month I come to see you and talk to your ghost. It’s a routine that doesn’t hurt anymore, the pain has long subsided into the numbness of a wound that’s been scarred over. The pain replaced by the empty feeling of what should be there, the part of my heart where you use to be. Sometimes the emptiness subsided when I was closer to the place where that part of my heart was buried, but that wasn’t the only reason I kept coming back.. The main reason was selfish, seeking a moment of past normality here in the present. I wanted to talk like we used to. The circling conversations that lasted hours, ranging from the latest stupid movie releases to deep questions about the world and where we wanted to travel. No one could replicate that feeling, and I’ve stopped looking for it in other people. I still haven’t figured out what I want to do with myself now, maybe that’s why the loneliness persists. I can hold the pieces of how to continue on, to build myself up once more, but I can’t seem to form them into one cohesive picture. The best answers always seemed to come when we worked as a team to solve a problem. So, like old times, I wanted to speak with you to try to find a way forward together. “I got another email back for a senior manager position,” I said to the stone in front of me, “another rejection. Look at me go huh? The world really doesn’t want me to move forward.” I sat back, resting my weight on my hands, trying to think of what you would say to me at that moment. Maybe it would be to encourage me to keep trying and not give up. To stand strong even when the world felt so heavy. Maybe you would make fun of me for how much one person could get rejected. What could I possibly be doing wrong? All were options of what you could’ve said, but none that you would be able to tell me. “There’s gotta be something,” I said to fill the silence, “something I could do, cause something’s gotta give. We both know it. That’s why I started this stupid job search.” A tree near your grave, an old weeping willow, swayed in the breeze. The branches creaked as they moved up and down, like they knew. They probably did, it’s not the first time we’ve had this conversation. “It all sucks, it’s no way to live. I’m trying to find a solution, but it’s not working. Why is this so hard to figure out?” All I got was the willow’s branches rustling again. A squirrel scurried down the trunk of the tree and weaved between the graves before disappearing. I hummed in thought and looked around. It was the same view I see every month that I come here; the same stone tombs, the same carefully carved names with carefully carved dates. The occasional bouquet of flowers either withering or in full bloom. You never liked flowers on graves. You said it would be a waste of something so pretty if you couldn’t properly enjoy it. So I don’t bring them. All I have to offer is my presence here every month and conversation. Me, with my old coat that has threads slowly unraveling in front of a plaque set into the grass, telling me that you were dearly missed by everyone. I watched the bus ride by. The pick-up sign was right by the fence surrounding the cemetery. It was as rusty as the fence and sidewalk, all of it uncared for and crumbling. It was a morbid thing to have a bus stop right outside a cemetery, but the city will do what it has to do. Just like everyone else in the world. “Maybe I should take a trip, leave this place behind. The suitcases we planned to use are still in the house somewhere,” I mused half-heartedly. Despite my reveries, I stayed planted where I was. I could almost see you rolling your eyes at my indecision. “Ah, to be an old tree, rooted in place and watching the world go by. What a life,” I almost laughed. You would’ve hated that, the independent spirit you were, always moving forward. I always loved that about you. We worked because we were complementary, different pieces that inexplicably fit together. You slowed down for me and I sped up for you. Now, there was no one to speed up for. Just me, continuing our monthly rituals of sitting in the grass, as I watched the bus go by every twenty minutes. The wind blew through the trees, roaring in my ears like disappointment. I waved it away, squinting down at the carved letters in front of me. “You don’t get to be mad at me for that. So what if I want to stay close to here? I can’t visit you if I’m gone. You’re not the only one who can be stubborn.” The wind roared again, louder and stronger like a reprimand. “Just because I don’t wanna fight with you doesn’t mean I won’t. You’re in the ground and I’m not, so that means I get to do what I want.” I stood up and walked back to my car. I had finished this part of my routine and now it was time to continue on with the rest of it. Back to the grind of faux-stability. Work, with the same tasks and the same building with the same people day after day. Mind-numbing job boards that all look the same and hold all the same rejections. Push the computer away when they all blend together and get ready for bed. Pointedly ignore the suitcases in the back of the closet and fall into an uneasy sleep that won’t give me any energy at all. “This is what I want?” I ask the closed closet doors. I expect no answers and I get none. Only the silence of a home with a piece missing. --- Like clockwork, I plopped back in the grass, grateful that it had dried since the last time it had rained. I greeted the tombstone and updated it on how things were going, which was as well as it always was. The possibility for any good opportunities slid by like they were oil and I was water. The wind blew in my ear and sent my hair flying into my face. I spit some strands out of my mouth and looked towards the sky. Birds were flying above me like they were mocking me for my choice to stay rooted in the ground. They are small little creatures, but they travel so far to so many places. Constantly finding new adventures and seeing new things. You loved birds, you always carried a part of that free spirit with you. “You said I should listen to the signs that appeared in front of me,” I said into the silence. “I just didn’t know you were this obvious about sending them.” The bus passed by again, not stopping because no one was there. The wind blew my hair into my face again and it sounded like laughter. The truth was, leaving would mean moving forward on my own. I could do it, I’ve been doing it the last 2 years. Even the travel savings, the money so meticulously saved month after month, was left untouched because why would I use it for just myself? I didn’t want to move away from the place where my heart was buried. To close that door and let the wind guide me away from you was terrifying. --- The moment I got home I opened the closet door and pulled out the suitcases gathering dust. I put them there the day you were put in the ground. They were too painful to look at when you couldn’t fulfill your dream. Looking at the dust on the durable suitcases, I could only see another way I buried you. I sat on the couch, looking at the suitcase and travel notebook that never left your side. The plans, the dreams, the wish to _move_ and never stop. You had always been an unstoppable force, until you weren’t. Now you’re the one rooted and I can’t seem to move forward. I ran a finger over your notebook. Leather, and well taken care of like the rest of your things. “Maybe it’s time to switch roles,” I murmured, “and take the lead for once.” Small changes didn’t work, so why not take a leap? --- I found myself standing in front of your grave again, but I didn’t sit down this time. I had a backpack and my thickest jacket on. It was odd to see the grave from this height. I was so used to sinking into the ground, melting into the grass for comfort like I was a part of it. “I’ve decided,” I said to the stone in front of me and to the person beneath it. “If I’m going to do this, I’m going to do it right and I’m not going to stop. I’m not going to look back and I’m going to continue even when I think I shouldn’t. Just like the trip we always said we would take.” The trees rustled and leaves shivered. It felt like the air was humming with excitement. Like the way you would always look at me with bright eyes and constant movement, as if you couldn’t contain your emotions inside. Maybe the ground helped give you a voice more than your mouth ever did. “Anyways,” I continued, “since the bus stop is right there. I thought I would give you one final goodbye before everything. It’s the least I could do, considering how much you were pushing for this.” The wind laughed in my ear again. It was about the only response I expected. I turned around and walked to the sidewalk. I looked behind me again, but the wind continued to blow in my ears like a crescendo. I stood alone at the bus stop. I was leaving part of myself in the ground. It was like allowing something to finally rest after so many hours spent awake. I took a deep breath and looked back at the cemetery one last time. “I’ll visit,” I promised the wind, “some day. I’ll come back with all sorts of stories for you to hear. Rest well in the meantime.” The bus rolled to a stop in front of me. I stared down the glass doors and took another breath. The doors squeaked open and the wind pushed at my back. The final piece of encouragement. I stepped forward and let the door slide shut behind me. I didn’t look back, but I knew the trees were waving me goodbye.