Return to Archive The Leaving By Ross Napier As I sat, waiting, the rain began. Thousands of crystal droplets, plummeting to earth, hitting the harsh pavement, bursting on impact. Soon, the street was glistening, tiny beads of water reflecting the sunlight which forced its way through the darkest clouds. A car passed, its wipers frantically fighting the water away. I sat alone, watching a puddle form, each droplet becoming lost in the expanse of water. The shelter began to cry, the pitter-patter of rain on its soft metallic body. Streams of water began to run down its plastic windows. The rain died down, a few last droplets fell onto the pavement, onto a drowning leaf, down endless drains. The clouds scattered, suddenly the street was hit by a thousand rays of sunlight, lighting up the whole land, which now glistened with content, and once again, the sun dominated the sky. Then it came. The bus neared its stop. As I saw it approaching, I reached for my wallet. I looked forward. I could see the local shop, the dark slates now dazzling me in the sunlight. I looked down. The pavement was almost dry. Several lonely puddles were scattered, contained within the slightest dip on the road. There was still a slight trickle of water running along the bottom of the kerb, looking for a drain to swallow it up. A bottle cap was caught in the flood of water seen minutes before. It seemed its fate also lied at the bottom of the ever-thirsty drains. The bus approached, its engine grumbling. The door hissed as it opened reluctantly. I entered. The warmth of the bus was welcoming. I glanced down the aisle - there didn’t appear to be anyone on the bus. The driver was not a stranger to me. I had seen his pale, wrinkled face before. He smiled, sending thousands of ripples across his skin, stretching as far as his freckled forehead. His receding hairline seemed to retreat further each day, as it thinned and greyed. It seemed his body had surrendered to age. His bushy eyebrows, white as wool; the bags under his eyes, holding the answers to questions nobody asked; his toothy grin, although, now, less toothy. As he processed my ticket, my eyes began to wander. All the familiar associations of buses were there: the ‘Mind the Step’ sign; that one plastic bottle which rolls from side to side with the motions of the bus; the sticky, stained floor. The machine ejected my ticket. I took it and placed it in my wallet, which I then returned to my pocket. The driver pushed down a button with his wrinkled finger. The machine spat out my change, which I took and slipped into my left pocket. I made my way down the aisle, slightly bowing my head as the ceiling seemed to become lower. I found a suitable seat. I sat on the window seat. As I glared out onto the street, a clear view of the shop, customers staggering in and out like bees to a flower, the bus began to depart. There were still some droplets, alone on the silent window. Slowly, the bus accelerated, my eyes still locked on the lonely droplets. The water began to move across the window, the tough wind stretching its tiny body. I then turned my attention to what was beyond the window - the rolling hills, the houses scattered, sometimes in handfuls, held comfortably in the hills, which were coloured with yellows and greens and browns. We passed over an old stone bridge, which groaned under the additional weight, a stream complaining as it runs beneath it. The bus came to a stop, the chairs vibrated violently as the engine struggled to keep itself running. Again, the bus started off, and as the bus passed the sign marking the termination of this small quaint village, I knew in the centre of my heart, that I was never to return here again.