I said, “I love you” as she bounded out the door. I stood and watched the way her hair bobbed as each foot bounced off the ground. In her right hand she gripped the big blue book-bag that she didn’t have time to slip on. I wondered if she had responded to my words as she closed in on the big yellow bus, if she had I hadn’t heard her. The darkened hole of the door swallowed her up and I smiled as I imagined the bus driver looking in the mirror, waiting for everyone to be seated before he closed the door and drove off.
The squeal and rumble of the bus drifted away, or maybe it was my mind that drifted first.
It was a brisk April morning and I was sitting at the little table on our tiny back porch. I was attempting to freeze the moment in time. I paid close attention, and with pen to paper I captured the details of my reality the best I was able. The cool air, the chirping birds, the brightening of the sky, along with the distant sound of kids jabbering and laughing as they waited for the school bus.
I was pregnant. Twenty-nine years old, and pregnant.
I was nervous. No, I was scared. But at that moment, as the sounds of the children filled the morning air, I had a vision of the future. The nine months of pregnancy and early stages of childhood development escaped me. One day I would have a kid. My kid would be getting on a school bus.
I pushed the door firmly until it clicked and sealed out the cold. My future is here. The pregnancy, newborn baby and toddler are days of my past. I have a little girl now. A little girl who goes to school.
I would buy your books