Print She bought a ticket from a pretty young Cuban girl behind the counter and got on the bus. There were only five other people on the bus with her, so she had her choice of seats. She took one almost in the back, farthest away from the others, slid in to the window seat, and rested her head on the cool glass, the familiar weight of her grief pressing on her chest.

 

Seventeen dollars to my name, she thought. I wonder what I’m going to do now. I’d like to get off this bus and lay down under the tires and let it roll over me, but that wouldn’t work. Someone would stop me. She felt the bus lurch as it started backing out of the terminal and knew she’d lost her chance.

 

Out on Truman Avenue, cars passed by and people walked along the sidewalk at the oceans edge. Tourists happy in paradise, she thought. But do any of them really know what it means to hurt. Do any of them ever have to feel this heaviness in my chest? I wonder if this pain ever goes away, or does it reach out and take root like those mangrove trees? I’ll bet that’s exactly how it’s going to be. My heart overtaken by the long, thick fingers of grief, forever.

 

She looked out her window and saw a convertible coming toward them in the opposite direction. A young man was driving and a beautiful woman sat in the seat next to him, her long black hair blowing behind her like the tail of a comet. Both had smiles bigger than their heads. Their first vacation, Eleanore thought. On the other side of the island, the sun dipped below the surface of the water, and the crowd cheered as another day in paradise ended.