LATE FOR THE BUS

Out of breath, hair flying in the wind, arms flailing, running hard in shoes made for sitting, I screamed at the retreating school bus, “Wait, wait, wait!”  Through the oval windows I saw my classmates laughing and talking, but they didn’t see me. 

Harrison elementary school was around the corner from where my mother, brother and I lived. Early in the school year our sixth grade class took a field trip to the art museum. It was a first for me and I was excited, wide awake all the night before, which is why I overslept. I raced around the corner from Harris Ave. to Fair Ave just in time to see the long yellow school bus pulling off. Even though I picked up my speed to catch up with the bus, the driver didn’t see me and he kept rolling. My classmates reveled in animated conversations and did not notice as I ran alongside the big bus in desperation. Mortified and gasping for air I gave up after a half block. 

I don’t remember if I returned home or if I went into the deserted classroom. I do remember my embarrassment and shame. I don’t remember if my classmates wondered where I was, or if they teased me the next day for being late. I don’t think they noticed my absence. I DO know that I can count on one hand the number of times I’ve been late for anything since then. I still barely sleep the night before an event and I am usually up to an hour early for everything. Now that I recognize the connection, perhaps I can let it go and trust myself to be on time.