I said, 'Kiss me, you're beautiful...these are truly the last days.'
"Ready for Santa?" Asks the elderly man standing next to me.
I laugh. "Nope, not quite." The truth is, as much as I love Christmas, I'm never ready. There's always something unexpected. This question, however, I have learned to expect. No matter how old I get, I always hear it. It makes me feel good to know that there are people out there who still try to keep the Christmas spirit alive.
The man starts talking to me about his grandchildren. He's 74, and he has a lot of them, but they're all across the country. He is sad that he won't be able to spend time with them at Christmas, but he speaks every word about them with a huge smile on his face. To me, that's love. I listen intently, responding when it is appropriate to do so, and slide my headphones onto my shoulders. Usually, I would be listening to music and staring at the shadows on the road by this point, hoping that the bus would come soon. But this is one of those rare occasions when someone takes the initiative to speak to me. It seems that only elderly people ever have the nerve to do so, but still, I'll take it. A conversation is a conversation. It makes me feel less alone.
"Is he talking to you?" He asks, motioning towards the man sitting to my other side.
I glance over, and find another elderly gentleman, gazing off towards the trash can next to our bench, deeply enveloped in a conversation about politics with, seemingly, no one. I shake my head, and the man I've been talking to laughs. I look off toward the trees, listening to the man speak to the air, talking as though someone were actually respoding to him. At one point, he sounds as though he is leaving a message on an answering machine, yet he has no phone.
After awhile, the bus I have been waiting for comes into view in the distance, and the man breaks off from his conversation to ask me if this is the number one bus. I tell him it is, and he stands. He reaches out to his left as if to take a person's hand, and as the bus opens its doors, he walks, his fingers intertwined with the air.
I sit down on the bus and turn on my music. I watch both men; the one I spoke to staring out the window with a slight smile on his face, and the other, once again deeply in conversation with no one. I wonder to myself if perhaps there really was someone there, and we simply couldn't see them. I then wonder if it was possible that the man I was talking to was not really there...or maybe I, myself, am not really here! Maybe none of us are.
My stop comes up, and a woman holds the door for me. She smiles at me, and as I walk down the street, I catch many others looking my way. I realize, then, that I must exist. They must be able to see me. Or perhaps I don't exist, and I am a figment of their imagination. Or perhaps everything here is a figment of mine...
And all this, simply because I don't want to accept that it could be as simple as that the man is imagining things. I would rather believe the whole world is an elaborate lie, than believe that one person could be even slightly off-balance.
Maybe I am ready for Santa, after all.
I laugh. "Nope, not quite." The truth is, as much as I love Christmas, I'm never ready. There's always something unexpected. This question, however, I have learned to expect. No matter how old I get, I always hear it. It makes me feel good to know that there are people out there who still try to keep the Christmas spirit alive.
The man starts talking to me about his grandchildren. He's 74, and he has a lot of them, but they're all across the country. He is sad that he won't be able to spend time with them at Christmas, but he speaks every word about them with a huge smile on his face. To me, that's love. I listen intently, responding when it is appropriate to do so, and slide my headphones onto my shoulders. Usually, I would be listening to music and staring at the shadows on the road by this point, hoping that the bus would come soon. But this is one of those rare occasions when someone takes the initiative to speak to me. It seems that only elderly people ever have the nerve to do so, but still, I'll take it. A conversation is a conversation. It makes me feel less alone.
"Is he talking to you?" He asks, motioning towards the man sitting to my other side.
I glance over, and find another elderly gentleman, gazing off towards the trash can next to our bench, deeply enveloped in a conversation about politics with, seemingly, no one. I shake my head, and the man I've been talking to laughs. I look off toward the trees, listening to the man speak to the air, talking as though someone were actually respoding to him. At one point, he sounds as though he is leaving a message on an answering machine, yet he has no phone.
After awhile, the bus I have been waiting for comes into view in the distance, and the man breaks off from his conversation to ask me if this is the number one bus. I tell him it is, and he stands. He reaches out to his left as if to take a person's hand, and as the bus opens its doors, he walks, his fingers intertwined with the air.
I sit down on the bus and turn on my music. I watch both men; the one I spoke to staring out the window with a slight smile on his face, and the other, once again deeply in conversation with no one. I wonder to myself if perhaps there really was someone there, and we simply couldn't see them. I then wonder if it was possible that the man I was talking to was not really there...or maybe I, myself, am not really here! Maybe none of us are.
My stop comes up, and a woman holds the door for me. She smiles at me, and as I walk down the street, I catch many others looking my way. I realize, then, that I must exist. They must be able to see me. Or perhaps I don't exist, and I am a figment of their imagination. Or perhaps everything here is a figment of mine...
And all this, simply because I don't want to accept that it could be as simple as that the man is imagining things. I would rather believe the whole world is an elaborate lie, than believe that one person could be even slightly off-balance.
Maybe I am ready for Santa, after all.