The Bus

she watches the splashes of green fly by the window and turn into the grey of concrete barriers. the rumble of the motor engine is deep, and loud, though she thinks herself clever, for having sat in one of the quietest areas, the only one quieter, she thinks, is the driver's seat, right at the front. it's a woman this time, and a relatively young one at that, which is unusual to her, but she notes it, and her eyes pass over the people sitting in front of her, then back to the window.
it;s gloomy outside, but it's as though someone upstairs smiled, and there's a sudden separation of precipitation, and the sun beats through the window on the other side, warming her face.
she smiles - the sun feels nice amongst the dreary backdrop. though, it is this monotonous view that allows her to become so lost in thought, as she is now, which is rather important, because there is indeed a lot of thinking to do: there is a whole life ahead of her to rethink.
she runs her fingertips over her stomach absent-mindedly, smiling at the sun and the memories it brings forth.
the memory off running her fingers over smooth skin covering strong muscles, and the warmth of the sun on her skin, laying on a picnic blanket in the middle of a park, with him laying beside her, with no words necessary - they knew what existed, and it didn't require words to quantify it. she blinks, and another feeling washes over her - another moment comes to mind - a warm, comfortable scene, filled with organised insanity, the hubbub of a family interacting. a television is playing in the background, and a peal of laughter splits the noise. she grins and looks up from the lounge, to the kitchen, where an older woman is holding a spoon, waving it at the kids tearing around the table. she laughed as He came out of his bedroom, caught the smallest child and swung her over his shoulder with a roar, setting her down outside, where the elder child raced after her, shrieking as the dog joined in.
She remembers moaning a response to the woman and sinking further into the lounge, then jumping up to cut celery for a salad.
few times had she felt so contented, and it was this reason why such an ordinary memory of family life, albeit not her family, sat so close to her heart.
and now she was a part of that family, so relaxed, all previous feelings of misplacement torn to shreds with the first 'hello'. her second home....
She is jolted out of her memory by a car that swerved in front of the bus a little too close for the driver's comfort, and realises she is smiling.
She hugs herself a little closer, and her thoughts drift to the future again: an empty house, that should feel stark and unfriendly, that she feels a sense of unfamiliar ownership for; a hand holding hers, that moves to her abdomen in time with a laugh; the sense of endless summer, and grins.
but this darkens as the recollection of what is supposed to happen: years of freedom, and learning, and late nights with loud music. and further darkened still with the present reality, without his hand. She dismisses these thoughts- she knows him well enough to remember that they have a lifetime, not a moment.
she never thought this would be the way her life would pan out, or will. She is content though - because even as the bus pulls a stop closer to her own, she knows that her future is uncertain, and wildly accelerated. Sometimes the biggest surprises are a blessing in disguise.
Her body doesn't show it yet, but underneath her jumper is a life changing force, getting slightly bigger every day. Some day in six months, right as the leaves begin to change, she'll be bringing home someone else, someone new to her and to him, but, at the same time, irrepressably connected, from the very first day they found out, to the day she was released from hospital, a tiny figure strapped into his little basket.
and though it is hard on everyone, to see their mistakes relived, or their worst nightmare evolved from a nineteen year old daughter, not yet through second year, and not to complete it for another eighteen.
She presses the button, almost there now. She knows it will be hard on them, and on her, but, even despite the alternative, she thinks she wouldn't give it up for the world. She knows they'll see eventually why she ignores their pleas of cancellation.
The bus pulls into the stop shakily, and she rises from her seat, smiling at him from across the aisle. He slides his hand into hers as they reenter the world outside the bus, where the air is cold, and a drizzle of rain settles onto their clothes, trying to dampen her mood. But it cant, and it won't, and neither will anything else.
This is her life to lead now, whatever happens, him and her, and it, together regardless of stigma and disapproval and disowning. She's happy, even through the rain.