What is it about trees?
And as the bus labours up the winding road, the rolling hills of pines come into view. The air becomes a different thing, cold, invigorating. We button up our jackets and look in awe as our breath fogs up the windowpanes. We use the tips of our fingers to etch out smiling faces. Already, we’re counting the minutes to when the bus will pull into the little wayside town. Our stomachs rumble in anticipation of fried boiled eggs with a runny centre, of jadoh and hot tea. From there, restored, rejuvenated, we’ll embark on the final leg of the journey, the journey that will bring us home.