It’s thirteen more stops until Bridgeport and twelve more stops until the bench at Old Grange Church where I had my first kiss. At eleven stops my mother and I met on Tuesdays in front of the bicycle shop with the purple windmill sign. At eight stops the school house lane wound through a knotted mass of bouganvilla to a silver shingled building I hadn’t visited in six years. At seven stops Mrs. Anne O’Kinley would be unlocking the door of the Java Hut where my favorite cinnamon roll goodness awaited early risers. Stops six, five, four and three passed through the center of town and familiar faces are bustling with mundane activities. Stop two… the farthest I’ve ever been away from home. I see the Bridgeport train station through the hazy light of the grimy bus window. Tucking away each memory I move out into my world unknown.

It’s thirteen more stops until Bridgeport and twelve more stops until the bench at Old Grange Church where I had my first kiss. At eleven stops my mother and I met on Tuesdays in front of the bicycle shop with the purple windmill sign. At eight stops the school house lane wound through a knotted mass of bouganvilla to a silver shingled building I hadn’t visited in six years. At seven stops Mrs. Anne O’Kinley would be unlocking the door of the Java Hut where my favorite cinnamon roll goodness awaited early risers. Stops six, five, four and three passed through the center of town and familiar faces are bustling with mundane activities. Stop two… the farthest I’ve ever been away from home. I see the Bridgeport train station through the hazy light of the grimy bus window. Tucking away each memory I move out into my world unknown.