excited to play with each other in the morning
on the patch of grass in front of our home
until the yellow bus appeared.
In the afternoons, we rushed from work to gather you up
with twirls and hollers of joy,
tussling your heads, or sometimes with silence and
a quiet, questioning glance.
We bundled you up in coats to sled down a hill, and then we would join you,
piled onto each other like stacking toys.
Some nights we called each other to meet in town to talk,
walking street light to street light to each other’s front doors.
In summer we celebrated with barbeques and in groups of two or five we
bobbed and swam in the pool down the street.
We became our own sort of gang, the Bus Stop Gang,
and for a brief moment, all together, we felt invulnerable.
Illness found its way to us, and divorce, and death and moving—
and you drive cars now, instead of riding the bus.
We could not protect any of you from much, and instead we each and all of us
love you through it, whatever it is,
and watch as you bob up smiling, to the surface of yourselves,
carrying forever, our gang of love inside your hearts,
as you climb, once again, up and on to your own adventures.