The Porch on Third Street

Part One: 3:40

The school bus squeals to a stop at the corner of Third Street every afternoon at 3:40.

I can hear it coming from two blocks away. The brakes are bad. The driver, a cheerful woman named Bev, has been asking the school district to fix them since August. Every day, I hear that squeal and something in my chest lifts like a kite.

I’m usually already standing at the top of my porch steps by then. I’ve learned to time it.

Lily is always first off.

She’s ten now, with her mother’s long brown hair and her mother’s serious eyes. She carries her backpack on one shoulder because that’s how the fifth graders do it. She jumps the last step of the bus every single time.

Owen is next, in his ball cap. He’s eight. The cap is a faded red Cincinnati Reds hat that used to belong to his mother. It’s two sizes too big, and he wears it every day anyway.

Gracie comes last. She’s six, with blonde pigtails that bounce when she walks and a pink backpack as bright as bubblegum. She waves to Bev before she climbs down. Bev always waves back.

I wait at the top of my porch steps in my red cardigan with my arms open.

They come running up the cracked sidewalk, past the maple tree and the crooked mailbox. Lily hugs me first, quick and tight. Owen hugs me second and pretends he’s too old for it. Gracie hugs me last and longest, her face pressed into my cardigan.

“Hi, Grandma Roxie,” she always says. “I missed you all day.”

“I missed you more,” I always say.

It’s the best four seconds of my day.