I caught the bus home tonight, and I sat on the top deck where people were sparsely seated, quiet. Sunday afternoon blues and contented tiredness. As we pulled off, another bus pulled up alongside us. I looked over; the other bus was rammed, people leaning over to other seats, laughing, shopping bags spilled over handbags and people squished into tiny seats. Black people sat next to white people, next to Asian people, next to mixed race people. Mothers, boyfriends, lovers, friends, fathers, daughters, enemies. All Newspapers and talking on telephones, headphones, eating quick substitutes to a meal. Everyone's own worlds colliding together in a moving rectangular box, all oblivious to each other.
As we rounded the corner, the buses split apart, and in one split second, one last look, I saw a lady with her head in her hands. Amidst the silent noise and the static rush, one face stuck out to me,a picture of grief. Unnoticed by her neighbours, she sat the stillest, the quietest. A statue of despair.
And she was crying.
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