The little old lady watches as the cars and trees outside fly past the window. She pulls her purple cardigan closer to her rounded stomach and holds her bag close. The other people on the bus do not worry her, but holding the dark leather offers a little more security than placing it at her feet.
“Where are we going dear?” she asks me without taking her pale blue eyes off of the world outside. I sign inwardly. How many times had she asked this same question during the bus ride, I could not tell you?
The stranger next to me smiles gently and looks down at her lap. She has heard my response many times now, never changing and always as patient as I can be.
“We’re going to the superstore Grandma,” I reply, the woman next to me mouthing every word in perfect time, “I’m going to help you with the shopping and you want to get a new pair of leggings.”
Grandma looks my way from the sofa-like seat she’s in. “Of course,” She mutters to herself, “For Marge’s party this evening.”
I sit forward slightly; interested in this new response, for each time until now she had remembered the current pair of stockings had a hole in after she was a little over rough with them. “Marge’s party?” I enquire with genuine interest.
“Yes, Marge is having a street party this evening with ice-cream and jelly for the children at tea-time. It will be delightful; there hasn’t been a street party for an awful long time.” Next to me the stranger smiles kindly at my Grandmother, her dark eyes sparkling behind sweeping eye make-up. “She has invited the entire road, all the families whose husbands are fighting in the war. It’s a terrible thing is war.” She adds as she looks back outside.

I lean into my own chair again and imagine what it must feel like to be completely oblivious to the time and date. What absolute bliss to be totally ignorant of the current issues and corrupt politics of here and now.

I sigh. Would be stuck in a time warp some 50 years ago mid-war be any better I wonder? Perhaps not.

She often talks about the days of war, my Grandma, so utterly convinced that at any moment a Junker Ju 87 Stuka would dip out of the skies and start dropping bombs without hesitation. Her strength to be able to walk out of the door and carry on her everyday life, yet at the same time being scared for her safely, is above me.

The stranger next to me presses the red button on the holding-pole before us, “I believe this is your stop.” She says kindly as the double decker begins to slow. I thank her and stand up.
Holding on the pole I say, “Time to get off Grandma. Let’s get you those leggings for the party, eh?”