India and Buses

Did you know the bus smelled like India?

The scent of jasmines and roses

intertwined,

a whiff here

and a whiff there,

crowning women both young and old.

When you're poor, the gift

of a single wild rose

is enough to make you weep.

The bus, it smelled like India,

the place where my parents grew up,

my mom especially.

Old books, the covers yellowed

and wrinkled,

the musty dust rising out

speaking of the ages of old

when kids ran around and threw pebbles

in the well

and beauty was a thing that existed outside

as mirrors were hard to come by.

I missed India, on that bus,

on that bus in snowy Saskatoon.

I let my imagination run from one end to another,

and promptly forgot all about it

as I stepped outside into the sun

trying not to slip on the ice,

as the doors of the bus brushed my neck behind me.