I am sixth in line behind a school bus wending its lugubrious way down Lyell Avenue, stopping to spit mama's kids from its yellow door. I sigh and turn up the radio. This will take awhile. I slouch down behind the steering wheel, car in park, and wait out the little tyke's egress, his legs barely navigating the high steps.
We - the whole lineup - creep forward two feet and stop again. Bus door swings open, lights flash bright red. Little kid with bookbag the size of his torso stumbles down the steps into his mother's arms. He drops his hat. The driver waits until he retrieves it and is safely away from the wheels. Like gumballs in a slot machine, we inch forward another 2 feet, halting once again for the lights and the door and the kid. This could take forever.
Then the sun peeked out. At the next stop, the door opened, and a very tiny girl bounced out of the bus, all wriggling with excitement. She bent over and looked at me from between her legs, her entire face a smile. She was singing away and bouncing and her long brown hair swung about freely. You could practically feel her joy. Happy, happy, happy. Life and laughter and exuberance radiated from her tiny frame.
And then the bus moved on. I carried her joy with me well beyond the road where the bus turned off and the line of traffic melted away. I think I may even have danced a little two step as I got out of the car. How wonderfully infectious.
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