1. Nose

my last trip to Wilmington, I should have anticipated this but didn’t, never thought through what the last trip would be like, should be like, but here I am, in my usual seat on the Crowley Coach heading south, no luggage with me this time, just a backpack and an empty tote bag, which I’ll need for later when it won’t be empty, for when I return with my mother’s ashes, and I wonder how much the ashes will weigh it down, if it’ll be very hard to walk back to the depot carrying her ashes or if I’ll need a taxi, and I wonder what kind of container the ashes will come in anyway, as I didn’t specify when they asked me on the phone, but maybe I won’t need the tote bag at all, maybe I can simply carry the ashes in my backpack, but maybe that’s disrespectful, I don’t know as I’ve never had to carry ashes before and I don’t know about this stuff plus there’s no one left to ask really, though I guess I could ask the Hartford guy in the aisle diagonally across from me, the guy who’s been picking his nose the last half hour, he ought to know about carrying ashes because he looks smart even with his finger halfway up his beak, and I’m about to ask, about to lean over and tap him on the shoulder, but I see he’s finally caught a booger, a big one, and he’s holding it up like a prize fish he hooked from the river, and just when I think he’s gonna measure it and weigh it, he wipes it on the backrest of the seat in front of him, near where the woman’s ponytail comes dangerously close, and just when I think it’s safe to poke him, to ask how best to carry ashes across town, I see that his nose is bleeding, that it won’t stop, that he’s gotten the backs of his hands all crimson as he’s out of napkins, and he’s looking around now in a panic—dear god don’t look at me as I’m fresh out of napkins too—but the man is smart like I said, and he pries the booger back off the fabric, shears it off clean and balls it up nice and tight with his red fingers, and I see he’s gonna wedge that booger back up his nostril to stem the flow, and I decide to leave the guy alone and not ask about ashes after all, because even though he’s clever and probably knows the answer, he’s got his own life to worry about

2. Baby

they give you pretzels and a bottle of water on the bus, but I didn’t think to pack a book, not that I can concentrate too well as I’m sitting here wondering if the nursing home had my mother cremated in her nightgown or not, because why would they burn a perfectly good nightgown if they could repurpose it, then again I don’t fancy another patient wearing her nightgown especially if it’s the flannel one with the leaping reindeer on it, and I suppose a book would be a welcome distraction right about now, but who needs to read when the flooring of the bus is so interesting to look at, and I’ve gotten to wondering if the fluted pattern along the aisle is deliberate and whether the orientation of the flutes parallel to the length of the bus is deliberate too, then it occurs to me that the answer must be traction, that the flutes probably catch rainwater off people’s shoes in mucky weather, yeah to siphon water away from the treads to promote traction, and, as if to illustrate the importance of traction, here comes a baby in a striped diaper crawling from stage left along the center strip, scuttling army style along the flutes which thankfully are dry right now, pushing forward at a decent clip toward another baby coming from stage right but with polka dots on its diaper, and I see that these two babies are about to clash with each other, duke it out over whether stripes or polka dots are better, and I remember how my mother told me not to have babies, warned me they’re not much fun, and how I managed not to think about babies until it was too late to have them, and now I see she was right all along, that kids these days are tricky, doing drugs or stealing or fighting, and here they are fighting even as babies over diaper designs, but I’m glad that, if they do have to battle, they at least have flooring underneath with solid traction, I do like how this bus has safe floors, safe for walking even when it’s wet, as the forecast said it might rain in Wilmington this afternoon and I’ll likely be getting on a sopping bus later with my mother’s ashes, but it’ll be okay because these buses all have fluted floors, plus my sneakers have fluted soles, plus by the time I’m navigating the aisle with the ashes these babies won’t be here anymore, having settled their dispute over stripes and polka dots, and little do they know they’ll have to collect their mothers’ ashes one day when they’re older, and what then

3. Screen

they only show boring, family-friendly movies on the coach, the kind with hoodwinks and treasure maps and lost sea turtles, but I typically ignore these, in fact I find the monitors dangling from the ceiling an all-around nuisance, except this time the driver introduces the film as a cultural gem with must-see plotting so I’m curious, can’t help it, and the opening credits are rolling now with Lady Columbia standing there in her white toga with her overbright torch, then suddenly there I am, meaning that’s me on the screen, meaning the movie’s a live screening of me, of me sitting in my seat, what with the bloodshot eyes and dried tears on my cheeks, and I’m startled by rowdy men at the back of the bus whistling and catcalling, dreadful men who yell at the screen That’s my gal and Show me your jubblies, men who don’t realize that’s a real person riding the same bus as them, and wow isn’t that runny mascara just frightful, maybe my mother was right that mascara’s promiscuous even when it isn’t so runny, that nice girls don’t ride buses all alone, that I’ve brought these theatrics upon myself and well-look-at-ya-now in that frilly dress, but I don’t see how else to pick up these ashes, because they don’t readily ship ashes through the mail do they, besides I’ve made this trip plenty of times before, gone to see her every second weekend, bringing her favorite Chinese takeout that’s much too high in salt, spooning her pudding after Sunday service and fetching her stolen knickknacks back from Mrs. Hippler’s bureau, traveling five hours one way by myself on the Crowley Coach, the bus that usually shows kids’ movies but is showing a red-faced middle-aged lady instead, whose toes curl under as she cowers from the men, from the men playing a round of guess-her-skin-condition, from the heartless men who laugh up cigarette breath, but laugh so hard I want to laugh alongside them, want to find the funny in a woman who forgets to pack tissues despite her grieving, a woman whose rosacea plays peek-a-boo through her makeup, a woman who stars in a film she doesn’t remember recording but might learn from anyway if she sits back and watches, watches the lady on the screen ride a bus to Wilmington holding her own, holding her head up high, watches her return from Wilmington with a dead mother under her arm, a mother who shared a room with Mrs. Hippler at the nursing home, and I wonder if maybe it was my mother all along stealing the tchotchkes, if maybe I had it wrong this whole time, it’s possible

4. Toilet

we’re nearing Yonkers, which is my cue to visit the bathroom in the back, maybe Sarah’s right I have a small bladder, maybe I should’ve let Sarah tag along, she’s been asking for years, asking to meet my mother, my mother in the nursing home who doesn’t know about Sarah—geez, too much diet cola, I’m about to burst—and I do appreciate how they keep the bathroom so clean that my shoes hardly stick, that there’s hardly any urine spray on the lid, but wait, what’s this floating in the water now, is that, is that a, oh no, oh no way, that’s an eyeball in the damn toilet, someone’s glass eyeball caught on some toilet paper, an eyeball with a grass-green iris looking surprised to see me, an eyeball that says Hallo nice to meet you, an eyeball to which I introduce myself, explain how I’m on my way to Wilmington to collect my mother’s ashes, to which it in turn introduces itself, says it’s Mrs. Turlington’s right eyeball, explains how it was yanked from Mrs. Turlington’s face a week ago by her neighbor, Mr. Wyant, of New Haven Towers, how it was swallowed by Mr. Wyant then expelled in the toilet just now, just now outside Yonkers, the toilet on the Crowley Coach that’s usually pristine, a toilet I can’t use until I flush it and do up the seat with a disposable paper cover, you know the kind shaped like a ring that you get from the dispenser, and I try not to think how rude it is I’ve flushed Mrs. Turlington’s eyeball down the john, try to focus instead on peeing without making a mess, pee all nice and neat the way my mother taught me, pee the way nice girls should, even though nice girls don’t ride buses alone, even though nice girls shouldn’t love other girls, shouldn’t love them even if they’re nice as well, as I do think Sarah’s perfectly nice, quite lovely really, and dear lord that eyeball’s back, it’s bubbled back up to peer at my bottom-side, it’s floating there high and mighty like some prissy swan, floating like nobody’s business, and the eyeball says I see you in this insinuating tone, says it over and over all cheeky like, and I remember how my mother let me feed the swans bits of stale bread at the lake, how she said even ugly ducklings become swans, blossom into swans and settle down with nice men, and then it was always when-ya-gonna-find-a-nice-man-to-settle-down-with, it was always that, but, mother, the truth is I never much cared for swans, they’re mean like Mrs. Turlington’s mean, the truth is

5. Cat

trying to take a little siesta here, recline my seat a touch, just resting my eyes really, but there’s a rustling in the tote bag at my feet, which should be empty mind you, a vexing scrabbling sound that’s been playing out a while, so I finally look, I take a peek, and there’s a cat in there, a marmalade kitten batting the tassel on a zipper, having a ball, having a blast, but I don’t own a cat, never did because my mother’s allergic, or at least she said she was, but here’s a ginger kitten punching one-two inside my bag, and I guess I should find its owner, gotta be someone on this bus, so I ask around, I say Who owns this cutie in my nicest voice, my friendliest voice, but no one cares, no one hears, no one sees me holding up this cat, this kitten who’s fallen asleep in my hands, and now the driver’s announced we’re detouring from the turnpike, something about a shortcut and construction traffic, and the bus exits onto backroads, jutting out too far while making lefts and rights, but it’s okay because there aren’t any cars, just weeds and people, lots of people looking angry, angry at each other or at the bus I’m not sure, people wearing balaclavas with anarchy symbols on them, people throwing molotov cocktails at bombed-out buildings, broken brick buildings engulfed in flames, and mother I know I should’ve told you, but you wouldn’t have liked it, would’ve doubled down on the blind dates, the parade of men and the endless blind dates, and holy heck there’s gunfire outside, flickers of orange all around, volleys of orange sparks in the sky, fiery hues of orange reflecting in the kitten’s fur, this cat who’s nestled under my chin, who’s purring so loud I can’t hear the artillery rounds, who’s so warm in my hands I can’t feel the heat beyond the window, and mother I should’ve said, should’ve introduced you to Sarah long ago, should’ve had you come visit in Boston, see how we live in Boston, but you always loved Wilmington so much, were so wedded to it all these years, and I see now it’s unfair to take you from there, unfair to take your ashes back with me, as you belong in Wilmington don’t you, and I belong in Boston don’t I, and maybe I should catch the return bus right away, we can figure out your ashes later can’t we, another weekend perhaps, plus I ought to get this cat home, get it settled with food and water and a litter box, and oh look we’re here already, oh look it’s raining