My Hero

He probably thought she was just another absent-minded mother with a pretty face.

Maybe he thought she was careless; one of those girls who had kids too young, who still didn't have a firm grip on life, and certainly didn't have much in the way of brains.

I don't know, he might have even resented the extra work it caused him, having to chase her halfway across the street to return her handbag.

He certainly had no idea who the young lady was that the old purse belonged to; maybe he wondered why a well-dressed, slightly eccentric foreigner like her was riding his bus with her equally well-dressed, slightly eccentric baby daughter, at 9 p.m.

He looked tired, worried, stressed--as though he might have welcomed the few shekels the purse contained. Maybe he was tempted to keep it. "After all," he may have thought, "She doesn't look like she cares much about her bag--nor does she look particularly destitute."

Maybe he was thinking, 'What is it with women, anyway? Always expecting the men to chase them around everywhere..."

Maybe it made him angry, the thought that so many, many people travel on his bus every single day, and yet hardly anyone ever takes him into account. "I might be part of the framework, for all they care. What do they think I am, a lost-items delivery boy?"

Maybe he had other thoughts on his mind; running after passengers with their forgotten belongings might just be part of his daily routine.

When he goes back home in the wee hours of the morning when his shift is done, maybe he'll recall the young mother to whom he had returned an old leather purse.

Or maybe, and this is the most likely probability, he won't remember at all.

That doesn't matter.

He's still my hero.