A short work of fiction by Kirk McConnell
The bus groaned to a stop, and they climbed aboard like shadows in the heat—four children and their mother, all trailing the hush of a long day. The youngest, a baby with moon-round cheeks and a smile too big for his face, was resting against her shoulder. When he caught my eye, he smiled wide and waved. I waved back. I don’t know why, but it made my eyes sting. Maybe it was the way he smiled like nothing was wrong. Like the world didn’t weigh anything at all.
The mother looked worn—not just tired, but carrying that deep-in-the-bones exhaustion of someone doing everything they can with not enough. Her oldest daughter Helena, maybe ten or eleven, was the one guiding the younger two to a seat across from me. She didn’t whine. Didn’t ask questions. Just moved with practiced care, like she’d done it a hundred times. She reminded me of me. I watched her settle next to her brother, a quiet boy with big eyes named Virgil, while their sister Diana stared dreamily out the window, fingers tracing patterns on the fogged-up glass.
“Are you the oldest?” I asked Helena gently. She shook her head. “There’s one more. But she’s not with us right now.” I nodded. I knew that weight. Being the one people rely on too young. Growing up faster than you’re ready for. I thought about my own siblings. About what it meant to carry that quiet responsibility. How sometimes, the oldest child never really puts it down. “You’re doing a good job,” I said. “I know it’s not easy.” She gave a small smile and looked down at Virgil. The name caught in my ear—so full of meaning.
I turned to the mother, cradling Isaiah, and said, “That’s a strong name. Isaiah. Do you know what it means?” She shook her head. “It means ‘God is salvation,’” I said. “He’s a little light.” She looked down at her baby boy like she was seeing him all over again. And he smiled.
When it was time for them to get off the bus—just ten minutes later, but it felt longer somehow—I waved again, and Isaiah waved back. That simple gesture stayed with me. The sun was low on the horizon, turning everything amber and soft. I watched them make their way toward the dollar store, the mother gently herding her little ones forward, Helena still close to Virgil’s side, Diana twirling along the sidewalk, unaware of how carefully her mother watched every step. I sat back in my seat, tired from my own long trek, but somehow lighter. I said a quiet prayer for them. For the mother with too much on her plate. For Helena, carrying what’s not hers to carry yet. For Diana, wide-eyed and dream-filled. For Virgil, quiet and kind. And for Isaiah, whose smile reminded me that the world isn’t always grim.
Sometimes there’s light, right in the middle of the gray.
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