I see her most days, morning and afternoon.

Hers is stop number twelve on the Lincoln to Hospital route.

She is dressed in navy pants and shirt and white flat sneakers.

I am fairly certain she is a nurse.

She is often tired, but she still says hello in a clear, happy tone.

In the afternoon I pick her up from outside the hospital.

I often wonder what sort of day she has had.

I wonder sometimes if anyone died on her shift.

That must be so hard.

She must be a strong person.

She is about forty, give or take five years.

I wonder if she is married. I’ve never seen a ring.

Are nurses allowed to wear rings?

I wonder if she has children.

I’ve never seen anyone with her.

She sits alone on the bus. Always near the front. Left side.

Her presence is somehow comforting.

If I ever need a nurse, she would be there.

I hope I never need a nurse.

But it would be nice to talk to her. More than hello.

She is pretty, with dark hair worn in a ponytail.

Her face is pleasing. Her eyes are kind.

She is of medium build. Curvy. Not thin.

She looks capable. Dependable. Trustworthy.

She looks like she would be a good friend.

Often I want to strike up a conversation with her.

But I keep quiet. I let her be alone with her thoughts.

We all need peace sometimes.

Especially after a long or stressful day.

I wonder if she can tell that I care about her.