Working

As the bus approaches the stop where I am waiting, 

I contemplate the work for today - not the job where I am expected,

but the outline and shape for my next book. 

What do I want to say? What will be it's purpose?

How can I tell my story so that other people, who

may know nothing about the topic, will be affected by the 

people I want to present to them?

I go to this little part-time job to help cover expenses

and to keep myself socialized; it would be so easy to become

isolated and turn into the neighborhood cat lady.

On the way into town,one rider boards in tears - 

she has lost her hat and the little

pocketbook in which she carries her bus tickets.

Profoundly deaf, she communicates by sign language

and grunts, tears streaming down her face

as she attempts to make her difficulty known to us,

the hearing world.  When I left the bus, I felt inadequate;
all I could offer was a pat on her shoulder and a smile as I left,
my sad attempt to communicate to her that it will all work out.

My little concerns are nothing.
I can see. I can hear.
I spend my time trying to find ways to make interesting pictures 
and to string words together in way that people will want to
read them. I am among the fortunate who can, to a degree, extend
that ability a bit further than usual practice. 
I do not yet have the misfortune to struggle to find 
ways to make myself understood without words,
either vocally or in writing.