The yellow bus pulled away from the
curb after swallowing up my children.
I checked the time, my eyes stinging
but dry. It was 8:35 a.m.
The Champ had climbed up and
disappeared, followed by his sister, who took a moment or four to
catch up with her beloved bus driver.
Neither looked back.
It had felt like forever and an instant
until the bus closed its doors.
I had an undeniable urge to run to the
house, gather all the kindergarten preparatory books in our
collection – you know the ones that remind newly minted students to
remember mom might be sad they are going off and leaving her –
douse them in kerosene and light a match.
They never looked back.
I shook the notion out of my head and
tried to refocus my eyes on the bus as it rumbled forward.
Their dad was waving, first at the
place upfront where we assumed The Champ would be seated and then at
the very last window, where, through the tinted glass, we could see
Ittybit all smiles and self possession. She was finally the Big Kid
at the Back of the Bus.
“Are you OK,” he asked me.
“Oh, shush,” I said waving away his
offered embrace. “Do you want me to cry?”
Only the dog, straining against her
leash, was outwardly bereft.
“Where are my people going? Why
didn't we go, too? Are they coming back?”
Sure.
It sounded more like: “Wrrrooown. Broughhhhh,
arrrrrrrrrooooooooo.” But I
knew what she meant. I had known this day was coming and yet I hadn't
filled my schedule with anything beside waiting for the bus to
return.
My husband went
back to work. The dog and I went back to the house. And waited.
In silence. Eerie,
echoing silence.
9 a.m.
“This
probably wasn't the wisest thing to do,” I told the dog as I put
the breakfast dishes into the dishwasher and scanned the room for
more things that needed doing. She just glared at me.
Even she knows
there's always something that needs doing.
“You know ...”
she sniffed. “If you hadn't gotten those dog-proof toilet
paper dispensers I would have made us a party complete with
confetti.”
She's really not
much help.
I collected trash,
laundry and dishes abandoned throughout the house. The things I
started got finished. The things I straightened stayed in place.
The
dog just watched me, head low. Moaning now and again at my apparent
lack of concern for her children. “I don't even feel like
shredding any of their toys,”
she wailed in despair.
She slunk off to
the window where she could see the bus stop while I swept the
mountain of multi-colored papers off the dinning room table into the
recycling bin. I wasn't entirely sure I'd read all of the important
ones, but I was confident their school would send more.
Eventually the
message would get through.
10 a.m.
The dryer alarm
sounded.
Laundry, folded.
Bathrooms, cleaned. Bedrooms, straightened (OK not really … I
closed the bedroom doors, which lends the same effect).
It was only noon.
12:10, 12:15, 12:16 ...
Errands will take
our mind off it.
I grabbed the
leash. “We're going for a walk.”
The dog looked at
me, skeptically.
“What if they come back … and
we're not here … ARE. YOU. OUT. OF. YOUR. MIND, HUMAN!!!”
“Leftover
bacon,” I sang as I held up a baggie I'd stashed in my pocket.
“Did you say bacon? O.K. Let's
go.”
Post office.
Library. Farm market.
A doll catalog. An
overdue picture book. Highfalutin bakery treats.
I tether to dog and
meander inside.
“Where
are the kids today,” ask the clerks behind each of the counters.
“First
day of school,” I smile to three separate faces.
“Ah
… so sad and wonderful at the same time. … It goes so fast,”
came their choruses of camaraderie.
“Except
for today. Today is just crawling by.”
Home. 3 p.m. Not
long now.
The dog starts to
pace. I pace with her until the phone rings.
“This is your school district
calling,” said the automated
voice at the other end of the line. “Buses will be
delayed today by at least one-half hour.”
“Arrrrrrrrrooooooooo,” says the
dog plaintively.
“I
couldn't agree more.”
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