The Prodigal Son

He was sure his eyes were open, and yet couldn't see a thing.  Nothing registered, not the violent heat of the sun on the back of his pale neck, not the people hopping on the 4:15, not even the little girl tugging on his pant leg desperately trying to tell him something which meant the world to her.  Breathe.  A loud gasp as oxygen rushed into the reservoirs that were his lungs.  Things slowly returned to focus.  There were his feet, yes, two of them.  The old man opened and closed his hands slowly.  He felt as if he had just woken up and yet desperate for sleep all the same.  Exhale.  The 4:30 bus arrived, people got on, people got off.  He stood there.  There would always be another bus.  Dizziness set in.  The man reached for the bench behind him.  Finding no such relief he fell slowly, as if submerged in water.  A high pitched "clink" emitted from the back of his head as it struck the edge of the sharp metal seat that had disappeared only a second ago.  A warm sensation trickled down his back, zig-zagging through his dark brown hairs.  His heart pumped furiously, rushing blood to the wound.  Beating, beating - defining life.  He staggered to his feet, his coat weighing heavily upon his shoulders.  His clothes tightened around his limbs, trapping his very soul.  He needed relief, desperate relief.  Anything to free himself from the weight of the world.  And so at 4:59 the old man stepped off the paint chipped curb to greet the 5:00 bus and into the arms of his son.