“She was the only one who ever asked if I was afraid to die.”
That kid — maybe ten, maybe twelve — sat in the front seat of my bus every afternoon, legs too short to reach the floor, backpack hugged to her chest like it held all her secrets. Route 6, east side of Cleveland to downtown. Forty years I drove that line, rain or shine, snow or summer haze. People got on and off, lives passing like mile markers. I remembered faces more than names. But hers stuck.
She called me Mr. Bus, which cracked me up. “Hi Mr. Bus!” every single day. Always smiling, always on time. Her real name was Jamie or Janie — something like that — but she never told me. And I never asked. Funny how the heart keeps track better than the brain.
She’d climb aboard like she was boarding a rocket ship, always with the same question.
“Are you scared this might be your last trip, Mr. Bus?”
First time she asked, I thought she was joking. I laughed. “It’s just a short trip, kiddo. Enjoy it.”
But she asked again. And again. Every Thursday for over a year.
Back then, buses had soul.
Metal beasts, heavy and loud. They grumbled over potholes like old men with sore knees. There was no GPS, no soft voice telling you where to turn. Just memory, instinct, and a clipboard with your route scribbled in grease pencil.
Route 6 was my baby. Union workers in the morning, janitors and line cooks in the afternoon, lost souls at night. I had names for the regulars: Cigarette Sam, who never actually smoked on the bus but reeked like a barstool; Church Hat Gloria, whose perfume could choke a horse; and Quiet Carl, who nodded hello but never said a word.
And then there was the little girl with the too-big coat and the eyes that saw too much.
I asked her once where she was headed.
“Nowhere in particular,” she shrugged. “Just away from home for a while.”
She never stayed on more than ten stops. Always rang the bell early. Always waved when she got off, like I was her grandpa seeing her off to school.
I got used to seeing her. Got to look forward to it, even. On bad days — the kind where your knees ache and your ex-wife’s voice is still loud in your head — she was a damn ray of sunshine. Just a kid, sure, but some people walk into your life with an old soul.
Then one Thursday, she didn’t show up.
It was cold that day. December, maybe.
The kind of cold that cracks the windshield wipers and stiffens your boots. I kept checking the rearview mirror, even after her stop passed. I slowed down more than usual, like maybe she’d be running to catch me.
She never came back.
I told myself her family moved. Maybe she didn’t need the bus anymore. Maybe she found a ride, a better place. Maybe-maybe-maybe. But truth is, I don’t know what happened to her. And it’s eaten at me for years.
Retirement came too quiet.
No party. No cake. Just a handshake from some manager who’d never ridden a route in his life. They gave me a plaque that said Thank you for your service, like I’d been in the military.
I put the plaque in a box and never looked at it again.
The house is too quiet now. My wife passed in ’98. Cancer — the slow kind that gives you time to say goodbye, but not enough to say everything you meant to.
My son lives in Oregon. Or maybe Washington now. We talk every Christmas, which is something. I spend most mornings on the porch with a cup of diner coffee and whatever bird decides to sing. It’s not a bad life. Just a smaller one.
Sometimes I dream about that bus.
I’m driving Route 6 again, down Euclid Avenue. Snow falling soft like ash. The heater rattling near my knees. And I look in the mirror — not the rearview, but the big side one drivers use to check for stragglers — and she’s there.
Sitting in the front seat. Backpack in her lap. Looking right at me.
“Are you scared this might be your last trip, Mr. Bus?”
She never changes. Same coat, same voice. But the dream always ends the same: I pull over to let her off, and she’s gone before the door opens. Just a wisp of laughter in the wind.
Last week, I rode Route 6 again.
Not driving — just a passenger. Needed to see it once more, feel that old rumble in my bones. The buses are different now. Sleeker, quieter, soulless. No grime, no grease pencil. No names scrawled into the vinyl seats. Just Wi-Fi and a soft robotic voice telling you where to get off.
The driver was a kid. Couldn’t have been more than 25. He didn’t say hello. Just nodded like I was invisible. I sat in the front seat, same one she used to take.
Ten minutes in, a little girl got on. Dark hair, same big coat. Not her — I knew that. This girl was smiling too, but it wasn’t the same smile.
Still, I found myself staring, waiting.
She sat in the back, earbuds in, phone glowing. Didn’t even look at me.
And that’s when I realized something that took me eighty years to learn:
Sometimes, you don’t get closure. You get a memory. And if you’re lucky, it’s enough to keep you warm.
Today, I wrote a note.
It’s taped to my fridge now, in shaky handwriting:
“If I don’t wake up, I was thinking about Route 6. About the girl. About how life isn’t fair but still worth the ride.”
I don’t know who will read it. Maybe no one.
Maybe that’s okay.
Here’s what I know.
Some people come into your life like bus stops. You pass them by, maybe wave, maybe nod, and never think twice.
Others — the real ones — they ride with you for a while. Make you laugh. Ask strange questions that stick with you for decades. And then they’re gone.
But they never really leave.
Not if you remember them.
Not if you tell their story.
And this was hers.
My last passenger.
On Route 6.
