In the furthest seat of the furthest row, she sits.
Before the sun, she rose.
And now, she rides.
She is the heartbeat, and she knows it. Not with her mind. But with her hands, with her back, with her feet. She rests her eyes, which daily see what only sees through her. Yet, she knows.
The bus jumps and sends the seats creaking, the loudest voices on the voyage. It isn’t the River Styx, but still, it’s a passage from world to world.
In both spheres, there is love. Of person, of place. Although they’re at least 18, she calls the students her “babies,” and she cares for them as she cares for her own.
She scratches at something in the black fibers of her uniform. It’s difficult to catch every stain.
They aren’t her oldest pair of pants, but they don’t look new. Then again, nothing ever does after its first shift.
In both spheres, there is labor. Work marks her brow and sets her shoulders. Home strains her heart and fatigues her mind. But in each place, she is strength and grace. An agent of order.
The highway reaches overhead, a portal echoing the sounds of entrance and exit. She counts.
One. Two. Three. Four. Just five seconds and she’s traversed a universe.
In both spheres, there is life. There is pride for what she’s made with her body and what she’s crafted with her heart. She forges family on the east and another kind on the south, and she is more alive because of it.
When she finally arrives, she will exit the green chariot, foot planting on earth that is just as much hers as the land she just left. The ground will swell with joy at her return. The air will rush to greet her lungs.
Many days are hard. They are long. They are unkind. Yet there is a bridge between campus and the city, and she will take it daily. It can’t be walked. It can’t be driven. It can’t be ridden. It is only crossed, moment by moment.
