Chapter 5

5

Someone's mother died on the bus today. Seven rows ahead of "Elizabeth Browning" and I, Mrs. Silvia Henderson passed away on someone's coat. The bus made a routine stop and he and his brown, corduroy coat wanted off. He tugged but she wouldn't budge. That's how we all found out.

The media always proclaims it as such a tragedy when the elderly pass away in such a manner, alone, on a bus, headed to no-where. But, I don't see those headlines. I can't find the story.

At this point she's simply a body, empty discarded baggage. No one frets when a pair of sunglasses are left behind. Yet, someone living and breathing is missing them.

And that's really the tragedy in the situation, isn't it? People have been left behind to deal with the deceased aftermath. Her daughter is left behind to mourn, dropping by the house on weekends to separate the nick-knacks from the keepsakes. Her grandchildren mourn with no more Thanksgivings with Grammy, no more presents from her at Christmas time. Her widowed husband must either learn to fend for himself, preparing the dinner and separating the whites, or be relegated to the nearest (and cheapest) retirement home. And the poor jerk and his corduroy jacket? What is to become of them? He'll be late to work now that the bust must be stopped, the authorities called. And his favorite corduroy jacket will never been worn again for he can never forget that an old woman's carcass was sitting on the sleeve.

Those are the tragedies. Those are your headlines, yet, the old lady's body, her excess baggage, will make the 10 o'clock news. But the woman won't be there to watch it or to put the newspaper clippings into her scrapbook.

Do not mourn for the woman who is in a far better place than the faux leather seat she died in. Mourn for me and the beautifully trite poet, for it is we who must exit the bus before we've reached our destination. The old woman reached hers. The old woman is at peace now.