Why is she telling me this?

While an adult, but still in my teens, I used to travel to see my mother frequently. As well, I sometimes drove or took a plane, the mode of travel was sometimes the Greyhound bus. The time spent on the bus was usually between 23 and 26 hours. Over twenty hours sitting on a mostly packed bus with a variety of strangers consisting of different backgrounds, different ages and different stories to tell.

Yes, I hated the trip. I hated the wait. I hate sitting for long hours at a time. I hated the gruesome smell of a variety of smells mixed into one. I hated the transfer bus that I had to take to make it to my destination. 

I did, however, enjoy meeting different people of different backgrounds. None resembled the character out of the story book that I placed them in.

A small, short framed lady with beautiful hair remains a shadow of my memory. She selected me to be the listening ear of her biography. She looked to be someone with strong Indian heritage but sounded like she had American influences. She overshared. She shared her struggles, her temptations, and her struggles again. I listened, and glared with amazement. Mostly because, I thought, “why is she telling me this?”

I walked away; like, “We have more in common than I thought.” And that is how I learned, not to judge a book by its cover.

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