Rear View

We live in a school district that runs a lot of school buses, and over the years, I’ve logged many hours at bus stops, dropping off or picking up. Eventually the older boys would walk to the stop, but for the three younger kids, in recent years the stops have been far enough from our home that I’ve had to drive. I never just drop them off. I always wait for the bus to arrive, and I won’t begin to pull away from the stop until I see the kids get in and see the door shut.

These days, Bill usually brings the kids to the stop on his way to work. Our current bus stop is not far, just at the top of our cul de sac, and in the winter it is still dark when our kids get there. Although they are in elementary school, they ride the high school bus with the neighborhood “big kids,” who are universally kind and patient, and who always let our kids board first. Bill parks on the street ahead of where the bus will stop so that once the kids are on he can pull out ahead of the bus and avoid following it as it makes several more stops.

Last Monday morning Bill and I carpooled, so I drove to the stop and park; the kids, always eager to hang out with the big kids, are out of the car in a flash, yelling “I love you!” but never looking back. We are barely a memory to them as they slam the door. I catch glimpses of the reflective tape on their backpacks as they greet their friends. The bus arrives, and I strain to watch them in the rearview mirror, making sure they get on.

Before the door shuts, Bill’s voice jars me: “They are on. We can probably go.”

He, eager to get ahead of the bus, never waits for the door. I see his point. I am sure they are fine. But I worry. Against instinct, I put the car in drive, and we head for work.

That evening, my dad came for dinner, and to stay the night. He has an early morning flight, heading for Mexico, and it will be much easier for me to get him to the airport if we both start from my house, which is only 15 minutes away. My dad loves to travel; it feeds his soul. Last year, perhaps for the first time ever, he didn’t leave the country at all. This year he has been to Thailand and now Mexico and in a few months the Netherlands. He says he’s working on his “bucket list,” but don’t let that name fool you. The man is destined to outlive us all. Each day on the road probably increases his life by a month—and has the exact opposite effect on me. I am sure he is fine. But I worry.  

The next morning we’re both up at 5, and it doesn’t take us long to get ready. Dad has told me three times that he has packed his own morning meal (he’s diabetic, so food management is important)and that I don’t need to feed him, but he is grateful for a cup of tea. We load up the car and head to the airport, arriving in plenty of time in spite of icy roads.  Dad kisses me goodbye and grabs his stuff from the back seat, calling “I love you” as he shuts the car door. As he turns toward Mexico, I am barely a memory. I watch in the rearview mirror as he makes his way into the terminal. And when the doors shut behind him, I pull away.

I cannot protect those I love with my gaze.  In fact, that is not my job. My job is to give them a soft place to land, and wings so they can soar alone.