The school bus carrying my 9-year-old son and 7-year-old daughter just pulled away from the stop an hour ago, taking them to the first day of fourth and second grades. There is not a cloud in the sky this July morning; the sky impossibly blue. I followed the yellow beast in a wake of smoke as it lumbered along, chirping birds and freshly mown green grass softening the roar of the diesel-powered cocoon delivering my babies to their teachers. An apt analogy, cocoon, in that except for its clatter and imposing mass, the bus provides insulating protection for its nascent cargo. Moreover, a transformation of sorts takes place; they enter the bus as my timid and nervous children and leave it as bold students among their peers and teachers, butterfly wings spreading in a venue of learning and socializing away from mom and dad.At the intersection, the bus lurches left toward the school and I veer right, unable to pull away from the dull magnetic drag of the need to sit at this dull brown-gray desk. Cadaverous drones stagger by me on the way into the office, muttering insincere Monday morning greetings while swilling weak coffee from stained and chipped cups. It is at this point every school day that I wish I were one of the voyagers on bus 6152, heading for a place of discovery and adventure.
