The four, misremembered

I lost my toy bus

on the real number four bus

4th April, 1984

My bus, driving along a fabric road

Black, orange, black, orange

Its tiny, grinning driver paying no heed to the road ahead

His head instead turned facing me

My eye to the tiny window

Through it, large, rain-spotted window

Frame after frame of speed

and motion sickness

Turning green

Stomach turning

I turn to my mother

“I feel sick”

Scooped up in safe arms

the simplest of motherly charms

We get off the bus

I prod the little red mark on her cheek

with my empty hand

The number four pulls away

and carries with it the only bus I’ll ever truly miss

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