Flowers on the Bus
By: Author Unknown
We were a very motley crowd of people who took the bus every
day that summer 33 years ago. During the early morning ride
from the suburb, we sat drowsily with our collars up to our
ears, a cheerless and taciturn bunch. One of the passengers
was a small grey man who took the bus to the center for
senior citizens every morning. He walked with a stoop and a
sad look on his face when he, with some difficulty, boarded
the bus and sat down alone behind the driver. No one ever
paid very much attention to him. Then one July morning he
said good morning to the driver and smiled short-sightedly
down through the bus before he sat down. The driver nodded
guardedly. The rest of us were silent.
The next day, the old man boarded the bus energetically,
smiled and said in a loud voice: "And a very good morning to
you all!" Some of us looked up, amazed, and murmured "Good
morning," in reply. The following weeks we were more alert.
Our friend was now dressed in a nice old suit and a wide
out-of-date tie. The thin hair had been carefully combed. He
said good morning to us every day and we gradually began to
nod and talk to each other. One morning he had a bunch of
wild flowers in his hand. They were already dangling a
little because of the heat. The driver turned around
smiling and asked: "Have you got yourself a girlfriend,
Charlie?" We never got to know if his name really was
"Charlie", but he nodded shyly and said yes. The other
passengers whistled and clapped at him. Charlie bowed and
waved the flowers before he sat down on his seat.
Every morning after that Charlie always brought a flower.
Some of the regular passengers began bringing him flowers
for his bouquet, gently nudged him and said shyly: "Here."
Everyone smiled. The men started to jest about it, talk to
each other, and share the newspaper. The summer went by, and
autumn was closing in, when one morning Charlie wasn't
waiting at his usual stop. When he wasn't there the next day
and the day after that, we started wondering if he was sick
or -- hopefully -- on holiday somewhere.
When we came nearer to the centre for senior citizens, one
of the passengers asked the driver to wait. We all held our
breath when she went to the door. Yes, the staff said, they
knew who we were talking about. The elderly gentleman was
fine, but he hadn't been coming to the centre that week. One
of his very close friends had died at the weekend. They
expected him back on Monday. How silent we were the rest of
the way to work.
The next Monday Charlie was waiting at the stop, stooping a
bit more, a little bit more grey, and without a tie. Inside
the bus was a silence akin to that in a church. Even though
no one had talked about it, all those of us, who he had made
such an impression on that summer, sat with our eyes filled
with tears and a bunch of wild flowers in our hands.
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