Bus Stop

by Justine C. Tajonera

You waited with us, once,
at a bus stop in L.A.,
you taught us which
bus to take to
Anaheim, Disneyland.

The sky was blue then,
the winter air was crisp,
there were leaves
on the ground
as we walked.

We talked about
God, about life,
about how buses here
were different
from buses
back home:
on a schedule,
about how exciting
it was going to be
for us.

On that day, I did not
know that I would have
a son the following
December,
I did not know
you would
fall ill
only a year
later.

Yesterday, I heard
how you had gone
on
and yet how vivid,
how alive
your conversation
at
the bus stop,
as if time
had stopped.

You are wearing
your warm sweater,
your hair is gray,
you are smiling
and there is a spring
in your step.

One day,
I will meet you
at a different
bus
stop
and I will know
you
from your
kind smile.

For Uncle Chito
(March 29, 2010)