Late August in the Northeast.   Crisp mornings, cooler than usual, the light noticeably shifting in its dance with time.   Summer is barely over and school busses are on the road, drivers mapping their routes.

It’s that combination of  sound and sight—the screech of brakes, the faces I picture peering through the small windows of the bus’s bright Crayola yellow body— that gets to me all the time. I see my daughter with a small group of children gathering at the end of our cul de sac. In elementary school days, parents (and dogs) would be waiting with them.  When middle school and high school rolled around, they were on their own.

Come September, nostalgia, with her gossamer strands of aching and longing, becomes a bittersweet presence filling the air. If spring signals fresh, new beginnings, autumn whispers the beginning of the end. The vibrant green of leaves starts to fade before they treat us to the full glory their yellow red orange green palette and then fall from trees.  A touch of cold air reminds us that winter is on its way.  

Imprinted in my own early back-to-school memories is no school bus waiting on a corner. Just the walk from the Brooklyn housing project of my childhood to P.S. 251 a few safe blocks away. It had the feel of a parade, friends meeting up along the way.  Middle school and high school meant a ride on city buses. 

Routines and rituals bring shape to our lives . . . .

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