Thirty-three summers ago, a diverse group of passengers and I rode a bus from the residential areas, each of us wrapped in our own world, silent and serious. Among us was a small, grey man, a regular passenger who silently boarded the bus each morning, heading to the senior center. He moved with a stoop (弯腰), his face marked with sadness, unnoticed by the rest of us.
One July morning, he greeted the driver and smiled at us, a gesture met with cautious acknowledgment from the driver and silence from the rest. The following day, he boarded with renewed energy, greeting us all warmly. Shocked, some of us responded in kind, and over time, we began to acknowledge each other more.
The old man, now in a neat suit and tie, with his hair carefully combed , became a daily source of greeting. One morning, he surprised us with a bouquet of wildflowers, slightly wilted from the heat. The driver, with a smile, teased him about having a girlfriend, to which he shyly confirmed. The bus erupted in cheers and applause, and Charlie, our old man, took a bow before sitting down. From then on, Charlie brought flowers every day, and some of us started to contribute to his bouquet, shyly offering them to him. The atmosphere on the bus transformed; men began to joke, chat, and share the newspaper.
As autumn approached, Charlie missed his stop one morning, and his absence continued for several days, prompting concern. Upon reaching the senior center, we learned that he was fine but had lost a close friend and was expected back on Monday. The bus ride back was filled with a quiet silence.
The following Monday, Charlie was there, a bit more stooped, his hair a touch grayer, and without his tie. The bus was quiet, like a church, as we, who had been touched by his presence that summer, sat with tears in our eyes and wildflowers in our hands, a silent tribute to our friend Charlie.
