Oh memory.

He was on the bus last night.

It was a short ride, but it was raining, and I didn't want to trudge through it. I jumped on, flailing my wet umbrella about and zipped to the back of the bus, poised at the back door ready to jump off in several stops. Then I stopped. There were only three or four people on the bus, and when I walked past him I'd caught a glimpse but nothing strong enough to really recognize him. My initial plan to exit out the back door like a good bus patron was overridden by the need to look at him, this man hunched over in his little old man hat, asleep on the bus. I walked past him as the bus was coming to a stop. I looked back. It was him. My heart sunk a little. I sort of asked myself "Is this some kind of mean trick?" And then got off the bus, staring at the man as the bus drove away. He didn't even notice me, and if he had, what would he have said? I'm not sure. I'm not sure I would have even wanted to talk to him. But he is emblazoned on my mind. And it made my heart sink, just a few inches.

On another note, if you're around tonight, be sure to tune into PBS for the three-night, six-hour series "The Jewish Americans." Unfortunately, the Los Angeles Times didn't give it such a hot review. But I have hopes, at least, I hope I make it home to watch!