The eighteenth October

On the seventeenth anniversary of the day we moved into our Hades house, I board the bus on the heels of younger daughter.

And there's André.

During our first year in Hades, André was almost always our driver on the bus that took us to younger daughter's preschool. He always greeted younger daughter by name, and treated all the passengers with calm kindness -- even the ones who were being difficult or silly.

We mourned when his route changed, and younger daughter made him a card. For my part, I wrote to the OC Transpo web site, describing his specialness.

We glimpsed him from time to time, when younger daughter attended kindergarten near Westgate, and later when she was in a special programme in Blackburn Hamlet. (Younger daughter's school career was an immersive course in Ottawa geography, and OC Transpo bus routes.)

Now, I greet André warmly, and he says, "It's been about fifteen years, hasn't it?"

"We saw you in the newspaper!" I exclaim, before hurrying to my seat. André is one of the drivers who mans the emergency buses that act as temporary shelters in big apartment fires, and we had saved the article.

I'm careful to leave the bus by the front door, so younger daughter can say hello. And goodbye.

I tell him we're moving and that we'll always remember him.

So many things are coming full circle as we prepare to follow Orpheus. I hope he doesn't look back.