Bus Stop.

I was back at the bus stop in front of a brick duplex, waiting for the bus to arrive with my friends to take us to kindergarten. Every memory I have of that place, the weather was cloudy.

A cloud of smoke came from a car window. It was my friend's dad. He stayed back in the car with his windows open to smoke. He kept telling us not to smoke, yet everytime he did there was a cigarette in-between his fingers. Adults confuse me.

Two of my friends lived at the brick apartment, while three of them lived further up the street. We'd all play hide and seek and other games with to pass the time. It was a pretty hard game to play since we were just playing on a small parking lot with only 3 or 4 cars parked at a time.

Through the years, people joined our bus stop, and people left. Before someone leaves for whatever reason, they have to scratch their name into a wooden telephone pole so that we'll always remember them.

By about 5th grade, our friend group was the smallest it's ever been. The summer before 6th grade, two of my closest friends moved east. By 7th grade, I stopped taking the bus.

Now, that bus stop is no longer on any of the routes, and our friend group had completely dissolved.

I did not write my name on the telephone pole.