14 May 2018:
I wonder what the kids on the school bus think of me as they pass, as they crawl across Willson Avenue (yes, that’s how it’s spelled) east towards the sun, as another day begins.
I wonder if they wonder about their future, staring at this simple man, his hair too long, late for work, negotiating the sidewalk cracks in front of his apartment.
How old is this kid, and where in the world is he going?
That’s me, confused and dazed as anybody at 7:30 in the morning.
Still, I want to tell these kids passing on the bus: things aren’t always like this. Sometimes, I get enough sleep. Sometimes, I have good mornings. (Yes, I have good mornings, too.)
I want to tell them, before it’s too late, to be on the lookout for one good teacher, to wait for her, to know one true voice and hold it. To find for themselves one thread of passion and weave from that what they can.
And, as their big yellow bus passes, I want to tell these kids (who do or do not wonder about me), I know the days ahead will appear inconclusive, seemingly inconsequential, but they matter. I want to tell them, this morning matters.
Writing from Here 