Even at 6:30 in the morning, with blurry eyes, wet hair and a to-go mug of tea, I always find that my breath is taken away by the sight of my bus stop. It faces the Chesapeake Bay, looking over a stretch of grass that slopes down to the water. On a clear morning, I can see the ever-moving line of cars cross the Bay Bridge to the north, watch the sleepy towns on Maryland’s Eastern Shore twinkle to life, and follow the path of a crab boat as it hauls in its cargo before dawn. To the south, I can see an expanse of open water that leads to the mouth of the Bay, and to the Atlantic Ocean.
For a few months each year, before it gets too dark, the sunlight spills over the horizon and paints the sky in vibrant orange, delicate pink and soft, creamy yellow, fading to a deep, velvety purple-black at the top of the sky. On those mornings, I stare out and eagerly consume the view I’ve been given, and the day that follows is always a little bit brighter.
I’ve seen the view from my bus stop nearly every day for fourteen years. Naturally, it’s easy to take such a privilege for granted. But I know without doubt that where I’ve lived, and what I’ve gotten to see, has shaped who I am and who I will become. I’ve been fortunate enough to see the…
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