on the bus ride home

Another lovely evening with students and another late return home.

It’s rare that I’m downtown past dinnertime. I know that this isn't anywhere near the witching hour, but I have adopted my grandmother’s hours and so I start dreaming of flannels (her preferred sleeping attire) in the hours far in advance of midnight.

My grandmother, of course, was also an early riser and now I am that too. If at 30 I forced myself out of bed in the morning, these days I force myself to stay put and try for another few minutes of sleep. It rarely comes. Forcing sleep is like forcing fertility: the more you want it, the less likely it’ll oblige.

Because there was a threat of rain, I had taken the bus rather than the bike down to the pizza place.



ah. my bus is coming down state st.


At least two of the students had parking ticket violations and hefty fines because they failed to drop small coins within seconds of when the meter did indeed run into the witching hour for them.

Sad. But I am among the lucky few who can ride home on a bus. Tonight it was one that takes the long route and I can’t tell you how pleasant it was to sit back and close my eyes and worry about nothing at all during the entire ride home.

Week well spent, family sagas (temporarily) resolved, love still felt, work still has meaning, the cold spell still not arrived.

One student commented that I give long answers to questions. A habit of a blogger – one who is used to answering even when a question isn’t as yet posed.