To Every Slightly Cloudy Summer Evening

The sun begins to set behind the purple mountains in the distance. The clouds turn from their beautiful pinky-orange to a darker but still magnificent indigo. The warm summer weather embraces me, a familiar comfort on evenings like this. The cicadas in the surrounding trees chirp a free melody. Looking straight up, I see the full moon rear its face through a cirrus cloud. I watch the sky go by while sitting on a dingy blue bench, the same crusty bus station I sit on every day after work, but today feels different.

These summer days tend to melt together since I got my first job. When school starts again in the fall, the temporary change will once again turn into the same monotonous cycle. Although, today is finally different. I wait the same way I do every day, but there’s a break in the rhythm. I have someone new waiting for me at home. 

The bus could not be any slower, and I’m checking my old analog watch every chance I get. I check the bus schedule behind me lit up by the golden setting sun to make sure I haven’t mixed up the times, and confirm for the third time tonight that I am on schedule. Ten minutes. I take in a deep breath, feel the pleasantly warm air fill my lungs, and let out an extensive sigh. Checking my watch every seven seconds won’t make the time pass by any quicker. I gaze upon the mountains again, the sun fully behind them now. The light on the bus stop clicks on, inviting an electrical buzz.

I decide to lie on the bus seat since it's usually only me here. The metal is cold against my neck, but this doesn’t disturb me. It’s a welcome contrast to the heated air. Once again my eyes lay on the moon. It looks so small in the middle of the sky, compared to when it was resting on the mountain peaks to the east last month. Despite its differences in its apparent size, it still shines a pleasant light. The moon’s brightness leaves a faint ring of light in the surrounding clouds. My mother once told me that means it is going to rain soon. I hope it doesn’t rain. I have an important night and I wouldn’t want rain to get in the way. 

Brightened by a mixture of moon light and the dim bus stop light, I check my watch again instinctively while lost in my thoughts, only realizing how little time has passed. Eight minutes. I wish I wasn’t in such a rush.

I think a lot about the cycle of time. The days tend to be the same. I wake up, do my hygiene routine, read for a bit, go to work, and sit at this bus stop for twelve minutes while the world turns around me. I pay attention to the moon, I’ve learned all of its phases so that even if it did not appear that night, I could tell you what phase it's in. The moon works in cycles as well, of course. Unlike my boring life, the moon is always beautiful. Sometimes it feels like life is just passing me by. I’m so stuck in my routine that I never have time for much else, not that I have the money for much else either. I think it’s terrible how I have to waste my life working just to continue living comfortably. What's the point of living if I don’t truly get to experience it? 

“Tonight is the night I finally get to meet my father,” I say out loud to myself, interrupting the cicadas' song. 

This was said partially out of boredom and partially out of the anxious anticipation I’ve had this past week. I’ve felt so antsy waiting for today, and here I am, still waiting. Waiting, waiting, and waiting. 

I see headlights coming down the street and sit up for a second, only to be disappointed when I realize the lights are not that of the bus. I lay back down and check my watch again. Five minutes. 

My mother never talked about my father much. They were never married and although she never said it, I could tell she was ashamed of it. Even I carry some of this shame. I’m an illegitimate child, a bastard, and my grandmother makes sure I know this. I’ve always been taught by my grandmother that I’m a child born of sin. As my grandmother sees it, my mother dared to have intercourse before marriage and I was her punishment. My mother grew up in the oppressive household of my grandparents and, as a survivor of that environment, she didn’t want to impose such strict guidelines on me. She believes I’m a happy child, and for the most part, when I can ignore the tedium of life, I am.

It is just my mom and me; It has always just been us, and we’re there for each other. Although we get into small arguments, we’ve always been quick to apologize. We try to communicate the best we can. She always listens to me about the littlest things, all of my rambunctious complaints, my unimportant drama and my longing to travel. I try to listen to her too, but she doesn’t talk much about her past to me. She mainly tells me ghost stories or superstitions she enjoys such as the scarlet eyed moth-man. She also enjoys the companionship of the moon and always takes the time to appreciate the natural world in between her busy work days. She doesn’t make much money alone. I promised her as soon as I was old enough to get a job I would, and so I did. She used to describe her dream garden filled with violet chrysanthemums, her favorite flower and my birth flower. She loves me, and I love her.

As for my father, he never had the time for me. He was a well-known businessman and didn’t want the stigma an illegitimate child would bring to his appearance. He refuted the claims that I was his child while I was still in the womb. Now retired, he is willing to meet me during dinner on this slightly cloudy summer evening. 

Sometimes I wish I didn’t work so late. The darkening sky is one that has always perturbed me. My least favorite moon phase is the new moon because of this fear. My mother tells me that it is supposed to represent new beginnings, but it’s only ever given me the creeps. This makes the full moon my favorite since it brightens the sky the most. Still, thinking about this irrational fear of mine raises my anxiety and I check my wristwatch for the billionth time tonight. Only three minutes. I decide to sit up again. The cicadas pause again due to my sudden movement, but then continue their tune. 

I don’t think the cicadas realize the invariably of their lives. If they did, would they still chirp so cheerfully? I wonder if any animal besides humans has realized the dreary repetition. Would cats still lie by the sunlit window if they knew they were sleeping their lives away? Would ants still build intricate tunnels and stock up on food if they knew the drabness of their place in life? Yet, they still continue living. Through the weariness, through all the good and bad, and yes, even through the irksome cycle. 

Although I don’t know what the cicadas’, or the cats’, or the ants’ reasons to live are, I do know mine. It’s to support my mom as she has supported me. The reason I go through this monotonous job is to help support us, just as she has dealt with her multiple jobs for us. It’s not much, but it’s enough for me. I hope one day we can save enough money to get out of here. I want to go somewhere different and new, somewhere with beautiful museums and libraries and nature, with her.

I don’t know if meeting my father will actually be a big change in my life. I can hope, but I’m afraid. What if it’s like a holiday where I get excited only to be disappointed when nothing has changed and it’s just another day? I can still hope. 

Another pair of headlights is caught in the corner of my eye. Finally, the bus arrives to save me from my own thoughts. I look up at the moon one more time before I stand, and the stars start to appear in the surrounding area. I silently thank them for their constant company as I board the bus and begin the trip to meet my dad.