Like her Mother before her,
my Mother would arrive by bus,
trundling her coat and the things mothers wear.

We would catch up on my sisters’ adventures,
or misadventures,
while we cook in tandem, or play canasta,
everything we do interwoven with stories
stitched from her past or our common one.

In our family, many are established legends.

At departure, we return to the station,
where I now dutifully wait in my Volvo,
as she wheels her small bag through the lot.

I see the portly, uniformed driver
grimly loading suitcases into the belly of the silver bus,
a half dozen travelers huddled nearby,
like mourners bringing their luggage to the graveside.

Parked too far to hear, I can see her approach,
the driver turn back and laugh,
and the passengers whirl slowly and stir to her presence.

So like the boy I had seen earlier
in the auburn river that abuts this lot,
toss a stick into a paddling of ducks,
(except they seemed unhappy).

Like the boy, I know she expects this flurry.
Just as I know she is never disappointed.
A natural outpouring of trust
from this depression era child,
while her children,
some say raised in suburbs of blissful ignorance,
grow up cautious and measured.

"At the Greyhound Station in Eau Claire” is printed here by permission of the author. Mike Forecki is a semi-retired Eau Claire attorney who now has the time to try his hand at writing.