The Question at the Bus Stop
When Noah came back, he was dressed and ready. His backpack hung from his shoulders, the straps too long, the bottom bouncing near the backs of his knees.
He picked up his lunchbox and held it against his chest like it was something precious.
“Got everything?” I asked.
“Sandwich, apple, crackers,” he recited.
“Good boy. Now what do we say?”
“Eat everything, okay? You’re growing.” He sang the words playfully, but his eyes stayed serious.
I laughed anyway.
We walked hand in hand to the bus stop at the end of the street. The air was cold enough to sting, and I made a mental note to pull his winter coat out that evening.
He had grown two inches since last winter.
“Mom,” he said as the bus rounded the corner, “you’ll have lunch today, right? A real one?”
I stopped.
“Sweetheart, why do you keep asking me that?”
He shrugged and stared down at his sneakers.
“I just want you to.”
“I promise,” I said, crouching down so we were eye level. “You worry about being seven. I’ll worry about the rest. Deal?”
“Deal.”
He hugged me tighter than usual.
Then he ran toward the bus, his backpack bouncing and his lunchbox swinging beside him.
I waved until the bus disappeared around the corner.
As I walked back toward the house, some of the weight on my shoulders eased.
Forty-three dollars. A son who still hugged me tight.
We were going to be okay.
