At exactly 3:20 p.m., I would hear the low rumble of the bus before it even reached our street. I would step onto the porch, usually with a dish towel hanging over one shoulder or a mug of coffee cooling in my hand.
The bus would stop directly in front of our house.
Ethan would wave goodbye to the driver.
Then he would run straight into my arms.
He was small for his age, but he moved as if he had springs in his shoes. His backpack bounced against his shoulders as he raced across the sidewalk, and most days he started telling me about school before he had even reached the porch.
He told me who traded snacks during lunch.
He told me which spelling word he had missed.
He told me every little detail about recess, even when absolutely nothing interesting had happened.
I loved that about him.
