Abby Wheeler

My father climbs up the steps of the bus. He is too confused to be amazed
by his legs. It feels like before, except there is in his tread a lightness unfamiliar
to even his memory.

The year has been difficult and the bus is full. There must be fifty passengers,
or a million. It's hard to tell. My father recognizes a friend
and sits down beside him.

Any idea where we're going?
Nope. Hope it's someplace warm, though.

The bus begins to move. Out the window, a river.
It seems at once to flow in opposite directions, simultaneously
coming and going. (Although, which is which, who's to say?)

Another bus approaches. The two sidle past each other, and my father recognizes
something like a boy. Where there might be eyes
is the notion of deep blue, and sandcastles.

I don't know what happens after that. To be honest,
I've made the whole thing up.

I hope his mother is there, though, waiting for him.

Abby Wheeler lives in Cincinnati, Ohio, where she is an active community and staff member at Women Writing for (a) Change. Her chapbook, In the Roots, is forthcoming through Finishing Line Press.

Follow @webbywheeler on Twitter and Instagram.

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