A few days after Jenny’s visit, I got a letter.
Not an email. Not a text. A real envelope, with a stamp and shaky handwriting. Return address: no name, just a P.O. box in town.
Inside was a folded sheet of lined paper. And one peppermint.
I stared at it for a long time before reading.
Miss Ruth,
You probably don’t remember me. Bobby, ’92. Sat up front, told you I’d make my dad proud. Not sure I did.
Been through a rough patch. Still going through it. But something happened last week. I saw Jenny come out of your house. We talked.
She told me what you did for her.
I never said thank you. For the rides. The quiet. The peppermint you gave me when I came back and didn’t feel like myself.
I’m trying again. Got a job fixing fences at Miller’s Farm. It ain’t much, but it’s something. One post at a time.
Anyway. Just wanted you to know you mattered. You still do.
Your old rider,
Bobby
I held that peppermint like it was gold.
That week, I started walking more. Slow, careful steps, cane in hand, through Mill Creek’s quiet streets. The town’s quieter now, sure, but I see things differently. The way the sunlight hits the rusted playground. The way wind stirs the curtains in the old church.
I stop by the school every Wednesday. Just to sit on the bench and watch the buses come and go. They don’t know me. That’s okay.
Sometimes, a kid will glance my way, and I smile. I wonder if they feel it—that someone’s still waiting, still watching, still hoping they get home safe.
Last Thursday, a teacher I didn’t know walked out and said, “Excuse me, ma’am, are you Ruth? Miss Ruth?”
I nodded, surprised.
She smiled. “You’re kind of a legend here. Some of the parents talk about you. Their kids’ kids ride this route now.”
She handed me a paper. It was a drawing—crayon and smudged fingers. A school bus with flowers on the windows. In the driver’s seat: a woman with white hair and a peppermint in her hand.
Below it, a shaky line of letters: “Miss Ruth waits for everyone.”
That night, I sat on my porch as dusk fell. No radio. No coffee. Just me and the hum of memories.
I closed my eyes.
I saw Jenny, not crying but laughing, her boy waving from the driveway.
I saw Bobby, walking tall, post-hole digger in hand, sweat on his brow and purpose in his stride.
I saw all of them—tiny hands gripping vinyl seats, hearts too big for their bodies, voices whispering fears and dreams and promises.
I wasn’t just a bus driver.
I was a witness.
A keeper of small things that turn out not to be so small.
The world doesn’t slow down. But every now and then, it circles back and tells you:
You were someone’s safe place.
You mattered.
And that, I’ve learned, is worth more than any goodbye.
