Mass Communication

    My mother and I were never really close. I mean, we lived together, we got along, she'd drive me to school, I'd help with the chores and all of that, but we never really talked about our lives together. Everyday after I'd come home from school and she'd ask me how my day went. I'd always just tell her it was "fine" from over my shoulder as I disappeared into my room.
    One winter day, I came home from school on the bus. I got off at my stop along with an elderly man that stepped off the bus just ahead of me. As I got off, I accidentally bumped into him as he stood there on the curb in the snow.
    "Excuse me." I smiled at him, slightly embarrassed. I was hoping he wasn't one of those strangers that yelled at you if you ever gave them a chance. He wasn't.
    "That's alright. My fault, really. I didn't see you getting off; shouldn't have been standing there." He returned my smile.
    "Oh, um, that's okay." I'd been bracing myself for the worst, and was relieved when he answered back so politely. He was an elderly man, yes, but he had an air about him that made him seem much younger and yet still wiser. I was usually quiet and shy around people I didn't know, but he seemed so friendly; it was hard for me to be shy without feeling rude and so I beamed an even bright smile at him as a response.
    We both stepped up to the edge of the curb, and waited for a break in the cars to cross. We made it halfway across and were waiting together in the middle for another break in the opposite direction of traffic. Our wait was made longer by a driver that decided to speed down the nearly empty road in front of us. As we began crossing again, the man spoke to me again.
    "Some drivers these days," he said, "They're so…"
    "Impatient?" I suggested. He nodded. "I know. It's scary."
    "Yes it is. Someone's going to get hurt one day and then they'll regret it." We began walking into the neighborhood I now knew we shared. The man motioned at my backpack. "You go to school?"
    "Yep."
    "What grade?" he asked as we tramped down the slush covered sidewalks.
    "Grade 10," I replied.
    "Do you know what you're going to go into?"
    "No, not yet," I admitted. He smoothed down his silver hair as he continued talking to me.
    "I have three boys. They're all out of school now though." He grinned again. "One of 'em went to the school out there," he motioned back out to the main road. "And took up mass communications. But he doesn't even use it now. I still don't know why he did it." He paused for a second and I found myself hoping that he would continue his story. I looked up at him encouragingly. He went on.
    "He was so happy when he applied. He came home right away that day and told me, 'Dad, I applied and I'm going to study mass communication.' And then I asked him 'Now Tom, why would you go and do a thing like that?'" By this time, we'd reached the road on which the man lived. He turned up the road, but I stopped at the sidewalk to finish listening. He continued the story over his shoulder to me as he walked away.
    "When my son asked me, 'What?' I told him, 'Why take mass communications when you can't even communicate with me?'" We both smiled yet again and he chuckled to himself. With his story finished, the man turned around began to walk away. "Take care of yourself, love." and with that, he was gone around the bend.
    My smile stayed with me all the way home as I thought about his story. When I got in the house, my mother was sitting at the kitchen table. Glancing up at me, she raised an eyebrow at the grin plastered on my face.
    "So, how'd your day go?" Still smiling, I sat down and told her.
...

I found this story as I was sorting through crap on the computer. Believe it or not, I wrote it. Eons ago. And I didn't even write it for anything, just because I wanted to. Not for marks, not for publication, not for anything. In fact, I think this is the first time that this has been shared with anybody but myself. Just imagine if it takes me almost 10 years before I feel comfortable publishing each piece I write...whoa.