the bus stop

t h e  b u s  s t o p

Some houseguests would not be invited in advance. In front of our East London apartment there would be a busy bus stop. We would sit on the window bench watching the world go by and watching the regular bus passengers, often the most fragile members of society and often the most colourful.

We would sometimes invite strangers waiting at this bus stop, to come in and share some hot moroccan tea with us instead of waiting out in the cold. We would listen to their life story and feel honoured to have them pop in. The next time we spotted them in the rain, huddled beneath the shelter, they were no longer anonymous; their journeys were stitched into ours, and we silently wished them warmth and a safe ride home.