Woman on a Bus

When I was a young girl—too young
to speak up, but old enough to remember—
my mother vanished on a long trip, or so
I was told. The truth—who knows?
I lived with an aunt, who kept me fed
when she was on her meds. Mostly I learned
to be ghost-like in my habits, hiding
inside too-big clothes, or a noisy
classroom. Even in the haven of my own
mind, I could not see myself, or only
vaguely, a cloud of steam across old snow.
When you sit down beside me on this bus,
smile my way and comment on the rain,
I see reflected in your glasses
stray bits of me, surprising—
blue scarf, gray hair,
eyes flaring, alive.