Bus stop lady

I see her at least once a week.

She's usually sitting on a bench.  He face is ruddy, like a character in a James Herriott story that takes place in the English countryside.  Like a woman who uses her hands to care for her family.  The redness in her cheeks seems like windburn, but somehow I know it's just life.  She is in a perpetual state of just finished crying.

She always carries a suitcase.  Blue, on rollers.  It sits next to her left leg.  She's waiting.  For what?  A bus?  A ride?  A place to live?

Her hair is supposed to be a dishwater brownish blonde, but she has attempted to keep it young with blonde streaks.  It's a litle matted, short and wavy.  A soccer mom's short bob that was just never maintained.

She is overweight.  She dresses in long, 90's-patterned floral skirts in colors like navy, mint green, and taupe.  She wears short-sleeve, loose cotton knit blouses.  To stay cool?  Is it all she could hold on to from her wardrobe before she left?

Her eyes look into the disance, remembering.  Asking why.  Her face is pained, and she's unabashed in her honesty about it.  As though she deserves to be exposed.  As though she believes she deserves this.

I wonder if she was a mother.  If she mourns she mourns the children she's glad can't see her like this.

Was it something she did?  Was it something she ran away from?  Is she crazy or just down on her luck?

Every time I see her, it makes me think of someone I know, and I wonder how long it will be until my someone is on a bench of her own.