THE WINDING ROAD

It was curves and hills most of the way. Rocky in parts. Potholes too; lots of them. The bus driver navigated the route effortlessly. He must have done it countless times. I was the only one on the bus; the only passenger, I mean. "VIP", I told the driver. He laughed. Later he echoed in his french accent, "VIP". Yes, I felt special on the bus that day. Thankfully the driver left me to my thoughts. My eyes wandered as I gazed out of the windows. We passed a little village with mud homes scattered on both sides of the road. There were also brick structures - cement brick rather than the familiar burnt brick. Children played in the different yards. I saw three boys along a small foot bridge. I saw a toddler engrossed in some activity and another small child sitting on the steps of an old dwelling. Along the way we passed a mother sitting out in a front yard, breast-feeding, while others conversed about her. The scene was busy yet she appeared oblivious to the goings-on. I watched a lady walking on the side of this major, yet narrow road, carrying a baby. I remember thinking how I could never live near such a busy road-