On Canal street, New Orleans, not far from downtown, seventeen year old me leaned against a bus stop sign. A fake yawn made my eyes tear up as I waited to hurry up. An ominous sky; a breeze blew like molten sulphur. Cemeteries ruled at the other end of Canal, opposite from the sanguine Quarter. Poison winds shifted, threatening to form a fatal funnel.

Yet there I stood alone except for a new book I had just bought at the B Dalton Bookstore. Trying to smirk I recalled the look of horror under duress on the cashier's face as I purchased the dark paperback.

A bus suddenly materialized from the non-local. With coins that shined I paid my fine. I could not ascertain the silent, corpulent driver's visage as I trudged down the center aisle. Candle wax and frankincense pervaded the air. A handful of meaningless passengers sat here and there.

My father sat in the rear, looking like a desiccated pharaoh. A brimming glass of Pinot Noir in his gaunt hand. When he saw me he peered up with a dismal but hopeful expression. The faintest of smiles forming.

"Daddy?!" I exclaimed. "What are you doing here?" Father sighed. "Don't remind me. Chemo was hell."

Anomalies were dawning on me, yet I chose to passively sit down across from him. Verily, I did not bother to ask the useless question of where he might be going. Neither of us uttered a syllable for some awkward, uncomfortable moments. Father's forlorn eyes fell upon my B Dalton Bookstore bag I clutched in my hands, hiding its contents. Brutal silence still ensued while we both gazed out the windows to sidestep the terrible tone of the Eternal Now. Grumbling thunder alerted me that my stop was very near on my event horizon. Was it now day or night? I stood. Father managed to look up at me and force a feeble wave.

Turning, I floated to the front of the bus. Accepting that this was it, I resisted the temptation to look back. The bus driver had vanished. Stepping down through the open door I felt the grisly chill of the collective unconscious.