A Long Way From Home

The familiar bustle of Chalmers St bus station greeted me as I stepped off the 1A bus sometime after 2pm.

This one had come on time.

I couried into the furthest corner of the far-left bus shelter, the old faithful spot, and awaited the 11 to Mountblow.

I debated if I should check the timetable.

ʻItʼll come when it comes,ʼ I thought

Despite being away again, this time for nearly five months, there was a comfort in knowing some things hadnʼt changed.

I looked to my right as a wave of blue ties and white shirts flooded the shelter and the rain started lashing in typical west coast fashion.

As they recalled their day, I heard echoes of my own voice and it dawned on me how much time had passed since I last wore that tie.

As a conversation unfolded next to me, the harsh yet mumbled sounds took several minutes to form words in my ears and with that, the air around me shifted from the realisation that I had been gone that long.

An unsettling distance had formed between me and the landscape around me, suddenly I was the observer hidden in plain sight, overlooked and adrift like a feather in the wind.

There was little else for it, I had to admit that I was no longer coming home, I was just passing through.

Time is a strange thing. It moves and yet, it stays still.

I change and yet, the world around me does not.

Outwardly, both Clydebank and I maintain traces of our old selves however, inwardly, only one of us has transformed so absolutely that there remains no evidence of the past.

As I sat in the dreary bus shelter and watched passersby move like clockwork, striking up predictable conversations about the state of the weather and the young ones' fantastic grades, I began to reminisce about the events that had led up to my apparent estrangement from my hometown.

Since I was a wee girl, Iʼd always had an affinity for what was just beyond my reach, paired with a youthful ignorance regarding the impact it may have on my sense of self or belonging.

I never knew who I was anyway, and I had no intention of finding her in Clydebank.

ʻAnywhere but here,ʼ Iʼd beg myself.

There was something about the concept of ʻputting down rootsʼ that had once felt more akin to wilful surrender in a place I did not want to belong to.

Yet, the unexpected weight of sadness and the uninvited pang of regret made themselves known as I witnessed the town I once called home move on without me.

Although I could hardly trade the wealth of experiences I had acquired from travelling, it was then that I faced the internal price I had paid for discovering myself across the pond.

While I felt like an outsider, I took comfort in knowing I would always be welcomed back with open arms and whatever figurative space I did occupy in this town, it would remain reserved until I returned from my wandering.

Perhaps there would yet be time for me to find a version of myself that felt at home in this place, or maybe I am bound to remain on the outside looking in at a world I barely knew to begin with.

Time will tell, as she always does.

Just then, I was torn from my daydream as a train announced its arrival from the station above me and with it, the 11 bus pulled round the corner and for once, I hadnʼt paid attention to how much time had passed in between.

 Image: Stephen Sweeney. Chalmers Street interchange, Clydebank CC BY-SA 2.0