Bus Rides

The man and the boy sit there on the bus—silent and still. Neither of the two says anything. The bus itself is considerably more empty than normal. Maybe five people—these two included.
The man is old, probably some ninety years. His skin is slack, creased, aged—wise. His eyes are bright, crisp, laughing, sharp. A deep grey—steel blue, really. His hands and bony. Knuckles resemble marbles, linked with twigs, enveloped in thin weathered skin. These are the hands of a labourer—a farmer, no less.
The boy looks to be about ten. His skin is pale, soft, glowing—fresh. His eyes are dull, hollow, pained, hurt. A pale brown—like mud. His hands are small and plump. Fingers are stubby with gnawed nails. The hands of a nervous young child.
A few other people are there. But you don’t see them. The driver is missing. The bus moves along its path of its own accord.
The man is dressed in a black suit. The boy is dressed in a black suit. They resemble one another—a little. Both have a round face. Both have small ears. Both have dimples. They share the same nose.
The bus comes to a halt. The man stands, stretches out his hand. The boy stands, takes the offered hand.
“Come along, my boy,” says the old man. His voice is old, worn, afraid.
“Okay, grampa,” replies the boy, squeezing the man’s hand.
They step off the bus and disappear forever.