The Wheels on the Bus
by Linda Wisniewski
NOVEMBER 9, 2010 TAGS:
The summer sun burned hot on my back as I walked through a development of townhouses on my way to the park. A week remained before Labor Day, but this was the first day of school in our district. Moms and dads stood on corners with elementary-age kids, taking pictures and delivering hugs as the big yellow bus approached.
Wasn't it only yesterday I was one of those parents, coaxing my little boy to pose for my camera? Every parent says that, I’m sure. Those of us who are old enough to be grandparents have said it many times. We look at the old school photos and hope we paid enough attention at the time. But we know there were days, weeks, maybe years when we were preoccupied with work, other family members or illness. If we are now retired, we have in abundance the time we didn’t give our kids, but those kids have gone away.
A week before my walk to the park, I watched my son leave home on another set of wheels. He drove away, not in the big yellow school bus that stopped at the end of our driveway for 13 years but in the used car we handed down to him this spring. "Away" is the word that tears at my heart every time: six hours and 300 miles away. I know this is right, life as it should be. As I want it: my son, tall and handsome, happy to take the next step toward his future in computer science, a college major we didn't even have in my day. We did a good job; he is ready to be on his own. But just for a moment, I feel sorry for myself.
"My day" feels as over as the summer. My back and legs are stiffer now and I need a warm shower to loosen up. Yoga stretches help, but it’s so easy for me to pull a muscle that way. The sun is lower in the sky on my morning walk, and soon I’ll have to think about wearing a sweater, then a jacket. When I stop for coffee afterwards, the counterperson calls me “ma’am.” And every evening, in my bay window the sun sets farther to the west.
I'm semi-retired, in my early 60s. I still have work to do: substitute at the library, write a column for the newspaper, teach adult education classes. And I have lists of plans for the future: travel with my husband, writing projects, meals with friends, a journaling group for girls. But mine is not the limitless future I suspect the children at the bus stop and their parents envision.
So I walk a little slower when I pass a group of little boys. I let the sound of their laughter fill me like a brook rushing over rocks. Rushing toward the future where I won’t be.
I take my cup of tea out to the porch and watch the sunset while it's still warm enough to sit in the rocker without a sweater. I remind myself that fall is my favorite season. My neighbor’s pile of burning leaves is fragrant with nostalgia. I can photograph the changing colors in the field across the road. Thanksgiving is my favorite holiday.
And this year, just like the last one and the one before that, I resolve to appreciate each special moment. I’d like to get really good at that.
On the ever-turning wheels of time, whether I am ready or not, winter will surely come.
Linda C. Wisniewski shares an empty nest near Doylestown, PA with her retired scientist husband. She writes for the Bucks County Herald and the Bucks County Women's Journal and teaches adult education memoir workshops through Bucks County Community College. Her credits include the Christian Science Monitor, the Philadelphia Inquirer, The Rose and Thorn, and other venues both print and online. Her memoir, Off Kilter, was published in 2008 by Pearlsong Press.
Wasn't it only yesterday I was one of those parents, coaxing my little boy to pose for my camera? Every parent says that, I’m sure. Those of us who are old enough to be grandparents have said it many times. We look at the old school photos and hope we paid enough attention at the time. But we know there were days, weeks, maybe years when we were preoccupied with work, other family members or illness. If we are now retired, we have in abundance the time we didn’t give our kids, but those kids have gone away. A week before my walk to the park, I watched my son leave home on another set of wheels. He drove away, not in the big yellow school bus that stopped at the end of our driveway for 13 years but in the used car we handed down to him this spring. "Away" is the word that tears at my heart every time: six hours and 300 miles away. I know this is right, life as it should be. As I want it: my son, tall and handsome, happy to take the next step toward his future in computer science, a college major we didn't even have in my day. We did a good job; he is ready to be on his own. But just for a moment, I feel sorry for myself.
"My day" feels as over as the summer. My back and legs are stiffer now and I need a warm shower to loosen up. Yoga stretches help, but it’s so easy for me to pull a muscle that way. The sun is lower in the sky on my morning walk, and soon I’ll have to think about wearing a sweater, then a jacket. When I stop for coffee afterwards, the counterperson calls me “ma’am.” And every evening, in my bay window the sun sets farther to the west.
I'm semi-retired, in my early 60s. I still have work to do: substitute at the library, write a column for the newspaper, teach adult education classes. And I have lists of plans for the future: travel with my husband, writing projects, meals with friends, a journaling group for girls. But mine is not the limitless future I suspect the children at the bus stop and their parents envision.
So I walk a little slower when I pass a group of little boys. I let the sound of their laughter fill me like a brook rushing over rocks. Rushing toward the future where I won’t be.
I take my cup of tea out to the porch and watch the sunset while it's still warm enough to sit in the rocker without a sweater. I remind myself that fall is my favorite season. My neighbor’s pile of burning leaves is fragrant with nostalgia. I can photograph the changing colors in the field across the road. Thanksgiving is my favorite holiday.
And this year, just like the last one and the one before that, I resolve to appreciate each special moment. I’d like to get really good at that.
On the ever-turning wheels of time, whether I am ready or not, winter will surely come.
Linda C. Wisniewski shares an empty nest near Doylestown, PA with her retired scientist husband. She writes for the Bucks County Herald and the Bucks County Women's Journal and teaches adult education memoir workshops through Bucks County Community College. Her credits include the Christian Science Monitor, the Philadelphia Inquirer, The Rose and Thorn, and other venues both print and online. Her memoir, Off Kilter, was published in 2008 by Pearlsong Press.
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