eavrth:

In my town there is a bus called the 2A, and it is widely regarded as the single worst thing in existence. Mirroring its counterpart the 2, the 2A’s path stretches from one corner of my town to the other. The 2 bus takes a wonderfully convenient and very direct path, while the 2A makes quite possibly EVERY DETOUR KNOWN TO MAN. With my luck, I always seem to miss the 2 and find myself sitting on the infinitely long route of the 2A. 

I volunteered downtown this morning, and found myself bubbling in antipathy on the ripped seats of the 2A bus. Go figure. As I watched my town speed by me through a dark window, the thought came to mind that this could evidently be the last time I ride this dreaded bus before I leave. Looking out at the ocean, I realized that the speculation was the most wistful thing I have felt in a long while.

I only realized how much this stupidly inconvenient bus ride meant to me now that it was my last time riding it for a terrifyingly unknown period of time. Seeing my town slowly unfold in front of my eyes brought back so many happy thoughts and memories, and at each detour, I was greeted with waves of nostalgia. The ferry to which I have rode so often it has become an old friend. Precariously hiking through an active firing range. Breaking a wonderful girl’s heart and trying to mend her back together with face-sized cookies. There were so many things coming back to me: flashes of images, faint wisps of conversation.  

So many things come and go in this world, and I cannot explain how important it is to appreciate them for what they are worth while you are still able to. The idea that I have ever resented this nostalgia-inducing bus ride has became nothing more than a foreign concept. Thank you for the memories, 2A.