Waiting for the Bus

On warm mornings like this one, we wait in the garage with the door open, the driveway lit. It's still dark at 5:40. We're quiet. We would be quiet, the two of us, even if the the sun were shining and the neighbors were bustling. A 14-year-old girl doesn't have much to say to a 64-year old woman with a raspy voice. Thank goodness for her phone--her connection to everything that matters. I chatter softly and ineffectively, my efforts rewarded with unintelligible mumbles.

The bus arrives, always within a few minutes of its scheduled time. Occasionally a car or two is inconvenienced, having to stop for the flashing red lights, waiting as she ambles coolly down the driveway. I watch her step up onto the empty bus, wondering how the weight of her backpack doesn't cause her to fall backwards. She is a small girl; the bus is cavernous.

I watch until the driver has closed the door, always making sure her passenger is seated first. With a screech and a groan, the bus pulls away, and I turn to go back into the house. But a piece of my heart is on that bus. The piece I gave to her the day she was born, the piece that will always be hers.

Have a good day, my Sunshine.