The bus hums beneath my feet, and my body sways gently with the rhythm. I focus on my hands, which are firmly clasped in my lap. Once so strong, now nothing more than a shell of pain. I regard the swollen joints, the wrinkles and scars. My hands speak volumes my mouth never will.
They tell my life story in the blink of an eye, and yet no one pays any attention. No one cares. What is one more old lady sitting up the front of a bus, staring at her hands? I'm dismissed with a glance, just another senior citizen seeking public transportation.
The bus driver knows that I'm different, but he just thinks I'm crazy. Who else but a crazy person would catch the first bus of the day and stay on until the last trip at night? He never talks to me, barely even remembers that I'm there. He's grown so used to seeing me, I'm no more distinguishable than the seat upon which I sit. One day I will no longer be here, and perhaps then he'll notice. Perhaps then he'll ask the question why. It'll be too late for the answer, but perhaps he will ask the question none the less. I glance up as the bus squeaks to a halt at another bus stop. I study the people who climb on, taking in every minute detail.
The first to climb on is a young man, probably a university student. His clothes are casual, his hair combed and brushed back. He carries a backpack slung over one shoulder, and is wearing comfortable shoes. He glances quickly around the bus, scanning the occupants and disregarding them just as fast. He slips his ticket into the slot and then goes to sit down towards the rear of the bus.
The next to climb on is a more elderly woman, who looks to be in her late fifties. Her clothes are slightly more formal, but she has an air of casualness about her that the young man didn't have. She has most likely just gotten off from work, and is on her way home. Her expression is weary, and her body language cries out for rest. The briefcase under her arm suggests she is a woman of importance, but her manner gives away nothing besides her exhaustion. She doesn't even bother to notice the rest of the bus as she slips her ticket into the slot, only looking around to find a seat.
The last to climb on is another young man. No, that's not right. Now that I look more closely I see he is not so young - maybe in his mid thirties. He wears a black leather jacket over black jeans, and a pair of thick rimmed glasses hide his eyes. His hair is dark also, and spiked, although I suspect he doesn't spend a long time doing it. He passes the driver a dollar in exchange for a ticket, and slips it into the slot. He hesitates when he goes to find a seat, and a quick glance around the bus tells me that it's because there are few seats left to take.
He spots the empty seat next to mine, and with a small smile he walks over.
"May I sit here?" he asks politely. I shrug and nod, pretending I don't care, but in truth he interests me. I study him more closely as he sits beside me, brushing against the shawl draped around my bony shoulders. He hasn't shaven this morning, and his 5 o'clock shadow doesn't suit his smooth face. He smells slightly of alcohol, but I think it's from his clothes, and not his breath.
He notices my watchful gaze, and turns to face me, his expression quizzical. I return his gaze for a moment, giving nothing away. I notice his eyes are hazel, and intense - so intense in fact that I immediately come to the conclusion that this man is an artist. He is obviously confused by my strange behavior, but I make no move to explain anything. Instead I begin a conversation with him, to try and get a better insight into his life.
"What sort of art do you do?" I ask right out, enjoying the startled expression on his face. He frowns slightly before answering.
"I paint." His voice is soft and pleasant to listen to. He regards me closely, but I keep my face unreadable. The inevitable question pops up. "How did you know?"
I consider my answer carefully, knowing that a wrong answer could end our budding conversation. Eventually I shrug.
"Just a hunch," I murmur, finally lowering my gaze. I can tell he doesn't accept my answer, but lets it drop. I wonder if he'll try to ignore me, or if he'll try to continue the conversation. I get the feeling he isn't much of a people person. Neither am I really, unless I find someone interesting. Clothes and body language can only tell you so much after all.
He bends over and reaches into a bag I didn't notice before. I'm slightly annoyed with myself - I usually pick up little things, like if someone has a bag or not. A person's accessories help define their character.
He pulls out a notebook, and quickly flips though it. He turns the pages too fast for me to see anything, but I can tell that they're sketches he has done.
He flicks open to a new page, and pulls a pencil out of his pocket. He hesitates and I briefly wonder why. I don't have to wonder long.
"May I sketch your hands?" The question takes me completely by surprise. I stare at him for a long time before I find my voice again.
"Why?" I make sure my tone is nothing more than curious. He blushes.
"It's kind of stupid," he admits, "but I think you're hands are interesting." I continue to stare, never looking away. He is beginning to look embarrassed, but he still looks glad he asked.
"Is that so?" I ask. He nods. I ask him why he thinks that. He considers for a moment before answering.
"You're hands seem to say things that you don't. They tell all, when you hold back." He shrugs. "Something like that anyway," he adds as an afterthought, obviously assuming I'll think him strange and crazy.
"Hands are a very personal thing," I say slowly. "Mine speak loudly because that has been my life. If I allow you to sketch them, you will have a part of me. A glimpse into my being." He waits politely to see what I decide. I consider my options as I stare down at my hands. He watches as I open and close them slowly, careful of my arthritis. "Once so strong," I mutter to myself. I look back up at him and he's surprised to see the tears in my eyes.
"You know what my hands tell me?" My voice is bitter, although I don't mean it to be. "Things change. People die. The beauty that was everything around you begins to fade, and you see things for what they really are. You see all the misery in world, and you can't help but weep. Life is hard and cruel, unrelenting and unforgiving."
I look back down at my hands, as though seeking to find an answer to an impossible question.
"They tell me of the emptiness that is my life. Of knowing so much, but being unable to pass it on. Of being alone."
He is staring at me with shock. For the first time ever, I reach up and pull the cord to stop the bus. The bus driver is surprised, but heeds my request. I climb off the bus and away from the man who had brought all my emotions to a boiling point.

Several months later I'm wandering through a gallery. I no longer hide on buses, observing people. I get out more, and try and find the beauty left in the world.
I stop suddenly in front of a new exhibition. Hanging in the center of the exhibit is a painting. It is me. All my pain and suffering is evident, both in my face and in my posture. My eyes fall to my hands, and tears form when I see what is there.
My hands are young, elegant and strong, just like they used to be. They clutch a tiny blooming flower.