Once I drove a school bus in Iowa.
Quite a few times, actually, over
a number of years. Out in the wild,
wide places of time and place long,
long ago and I had four little boys
who rode my bus. The Vlegers.
Their last name was Vleger as I recall
and cannot forget and they always
smelled of soap and bacon, because
their mother always sent them off
to school clean and well fed and they
were well behaved, perfect little
gentlemen of various little sizes
in the seats of my bus. I drove
Number 15. Their mother, a big
handsome farm wife, would stand
with arms folded watching them
walk down to the bus in the morning
or back from the bus in the afternoon,
like a hawk, stern and vigilant and
loving of her brood and they had a
little sister, a golden haired cherub
too young for school who greeted
them and one golden afternoon
they got off the bus and the child
ran toward them with arms outstretched
and laughing and they laughed and
ran toward her and gathered around
her with books forgotten and almost
dropped and lessons unlearned
and laughed they all laughed
and walked back to the house
together beneath the gaze of their
never smiling mother, but I knew
as I sat behind the wheel of my bus
I had never seen a picture greater
of familial love in my entire life
and I have lived much longer since yet
still remember that truth after all
these years. I saw wonderful things.
Once you have, you never forget.
♥