Before this month, I hadn’t caught the bus to the Hills for nearly twenty years. And now I’m on there every day. It still makes me smile as we pull into Hindmarsh Square - the hours of my young life spent waiting there, being allowed to go to town with Kate for the first time, the afternoon I broke up with Nick, and a few months later where I kissed Jack, so many nights giggling and busting for the toilet with Ehren and Laura and Kell, waiting for the last bus.
Twenty years is a long time. I feel old and very different. I mean, of course I do, but the difference feels sharp. I saw a young woman in her school uniform this afternoon, listening to music and gazing out the window. It could have been me listening to Beth Orton and pining for love in 1998. I wondered if she felt that constant edge, the fear and worry and myriad insecurities closing in, or if some days the idea of the world and being nearly there were more joyous, if they buoyed her through it all. The pull of both, the fear and the promise of all those years ahead.
It’s spring now and the days feel mild, full of change. There are blossoms and new leaves and the light is lasting; lifting everything. It’s wonderful.