Ronny, our bus driver, was like the postal service. Much to the chagrin of all the children on the South Shore, he’d do his job no matter the weather. It could be more frigid than Mars; Ronny was there. The snow banks could be six feet high; Ronny was there. Ronny’s son rode the school bus with us and we’d pick on him for our basic lack of “snow days”.
After Ronny died, Ricky said his mother made him kiss his father’s forehead to say goodbye.
“How was that?” I asked, secretly hoping for a zombie story.
“Cold.”
After Ronny died, Ricky said his mother made him kiss his father’s forehead to say goodbye.
“How was that?” I asked, secretly hoping for a zombie story.
“Cold.”
