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She liked riding the bus. The anonymity. Being by herself. Not being recognized was a good thing. Not having to answer to anyone.

Now that she lived alone, and because she could no longer drive, the bus was her primary mode of transportation. If she went out. Which she did less and less. Living on the Windward side, she saw the children and grandchildren less frequently. They all lived in town.

Once Harold passed away, and she was alone, she found gradually, strangely to her at first, that she rarely felt lonely. And then, suddenly, it wasn’t strange at all. After a life of raising her family and teaching, she relished not having to be so much of a people person anymore.

It had been she and Harold for ten years after they both retired at the same time. That had been good, finally enjoying the peace of being together, just the two of them, the way it had been before the children came. They’d traveled a lot in those ten years. Visited most of the places on their bucket list.

And then Harold had died unexpectedly which tore apart that last deep, romantic bond they’d rediscovered. It had taken time to recover from that loss. The kids and grandkids had helped. They’d drive over from Honolulu frequently, had been supportive, but even then she’d wished more and more that she could be by herself to heal.

The rain pounded down. She sat in the barely covered bus shelter, waiting. Her umbrella helped a bit, but the wind blew the rain at a sideways angle.

“We’ll pick you up, Ma,” Walter had said. “It’ll be way easier for you.”

“No no,” she’d insisted. “I want to ride the bus.”

Her youngest son had protested, but she wouldn’t hear of it. “I’ll meet you there, Walt.”

The rain whipped about her. This is why they call this the Windward side, she mused.

Finally, the #60 bus came into sight. It was the #60, then the #13, and that would take her to the Neal S. Blaisdell Center. That’s where her grandson, Neal, would play in the state championship basketball game. What a coincidence. Maybe his name being the same meant he was destined to play for the championship there.

She was very proud of him for playing on a team that had gone all the way to the championship game. She was proud of all her grandchildren, and her children. She loved them. They all loved her.

And even though she loved them all more than anything in the world, she liked to see them less often now.

Should I worry about that? she wondered, as the #60 plodded through the downpour up Kamehameha Highway toward the Castle Junction.

Should I should feel bad about that? she wondered.

At Castle Junction, the bus turned up Pali Highway.

Is this what every mother feels once she’s raised her family, once she’s left alone when the man she loved for most of her life dies?

She noticed the bus driver talking to someone on his phone. The bus stopped. Everyone looked up ahead to see what the holdup was. All they could see through the pounding rain was a blur of red taillights.

The bus driver stood up and faced them. “Folks, sorry, but there’s a landslide just past the tunnels. No one can get through. Please hang in there. All of us are turning around up near the tunnel. We have to head back to Kane‘ohe and go all the way around Waimanalo side into town. Gonna be a long ride. Just hang on.”

She looked at her watch. Even though she’d left early, would she miss the game?

The bus finally reached the turnaround. As they inched their way back down toward Castle Junction, she knew she’d certainly not make the game now.

If she had her cell phone with her, she’d be able to call Walter. But she never carried it with her anymore. It sat on the dining room table. Part of what she liked about living alone was, ironically, that she didn’t have to be tied to a phone. Not having to worry about phone calls provided an insular layer that furthered her distance from people.

The bus reached Castle Junction. Pressing the buzzer, she got off and raised her umbrella against the wind and rain. She had to smile.

She made a mental note to call Walter when she arrived home. She wouldn’t want to worry him.

Yes, she thought, I’d never make the game in time anyway. Better just to catch the bus back home.