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He is continually haunted by a single, specific memory from the day of the crash: The split second when he saw Connor Boyd one last time before the front of the bus slammed into the train and disappeared into a cloud of smoke.

“I couldn’t do a thing — this is my horror I replay. I wish it was me, not that beautiful lad. This is my f—ing nightmare and there will be no escape, no turning back. Just the realization that I am a f—ing coward not worth shit.”

Connor was the one who died that day, but he took part of Gibson with him.

*****

Photo by Wayne Cuddington / Ottawa Citizen

The bus stop is 386 steps from David Gibson’s front door.

His lungs fill with warm air as he passes a familiar row of houses. The sun shines. It’s late August, 2015.

Gibson still rides the express bus to work most mornings, though now he pops an anti-anxiety pill first. His back sweats, his stomach churns and his mind relives the crash.

But he doesn’t give up. He can’t.

People ask him all the time why he still rides the bus when so many other passengers who were on the 76 that day choose a different route now, avoid double-decker buses or drive.

He rides to honour Connor and the other people who died. He rides to honour the people, like himself, whose lives remain forever changed. And he rides because it’s part of who he was and the life he once lived.

“To give up is to lose who I was, and it’s a choice I’m not ready to make.”

mpearson@ottawacitizen.com

twitter.com/mpearson78

David Gibson’s poems

Bus stop 4608

In 386 steps from my home is bus stop 4608.

I used to think about work, or if we needed groceries…

Now, my steps are less assured, almost hesitant.

I think about my family farewells, hugs and kisses — did I remember to say I love you?

With every step, a painful memory of what was in time a bright autumn morning.

Now, I walk with uncertainty.

Waiting for bus route 76.