My brother and I climb the steps and he offers us a nod. He wears cut-off jeans, tank top, gold-rimmed glasses. As we walk down the aisle, crackly speakers on the bus walls begin to croon, “Sad eyes, turn the other way … .” Our driver turns up the radio and sings along. He is soft-spoken, thirty-something, sideburned. I steal glances at him when he sings grown-up songs I don’t understand. Love songs are his favorite. Tomorrow morning he’ll be gone, replaced. And muffled, unfamiliar words like “stroke” will travel to us from older ones at the back of the bus.
Erin Taylor lives in Virginia with her spouse, two teen sons, and two properly-adored felines who love to join video calls.