Some mornings the bus is a miniature party.
Our words like streamers.
At each bus stop: a different home. A door opens
and a child with a ventilator is carried down.
At each stop, applause from all the mothers lucky enough
to ride the bus. “Go Sasha, go Sasha.” We compete
to catch the child’s attention. Who will hit the right tone?
The right volume. Right smile or word or phrase to make
the child notice and grin. The children who can walk do so
down the rubber yellow-lines of the bus, turned fashion runway.
We want them to strut. We call and hoot. We pout,
blow kisses. We are inappropriate
with our affections, nicknames, the way we touch their hands
like mini saviors, the passing of saints. The way we demand
high fives. “She’s better looking than Beyonce. Watch out for the
boys.”
“Look at Jaden’s Micky Mouse sneakers. He’s so handsome today.”
The children are rained down on in every language.
For their clothing and their hair. For the toys
they are technically not allowed to bring onto the city-sanctioned
bus.
“Oh my! Is that Thomas? Is that Miss Piggy? Is that your blinky?”
“Look what Eduardo has today, his very own cellphone.
Mr. Businessman, that’s what you are.”
We give them futures, possible and improbable.
Proclamations: “Look at all these beautiful, blessed children.”
Excuses: “That’s okay, you don’t have to say “hi.”
Tender jibing: “Are you going to stay awake so we can see your
eyes?”
And for my son, always, “How is my boyfriend this morning?”
These mothers smile their widest smiles
as if paparazzi are on the bus, as if it’s picture day every day.
I am slow to rise to this kind of excitement
but manage to say good morning. My son and I take our seats
in this moving cranking manual ignition diesel-tank theater of love.
Who are these women? I have never met any like them before.
