I was looking through old pictures with my daughter, Miranda, when I noticed there was a photo of old Betty. I looked at that photograph and the memories came flooding back. It was with her that I first learned how to drive a bus. I had been so proud on the first day when I got to take on the route wearing the driver’s hat.
There were tears shed on the day that they decided to retire old Betty and replace her with something new. The modern buses had nothing on old Betty and the feel of driving her. My modern bus did not even have a name because I did not feel the buses were worthy these days.
She was probably destined for some scrapheap.
It was right at the moment that my eyes began to moisten that Miranda tugged on my sleeve with sudden excitement. “Look out the window!”
Outside was my son, Peter, who had just pulled up in a bright red bus. I grabbed my walking stick and headed outside. There were no words to describe my emotions as I looked at the bus and realised it was old Betty herself.
Somehow Peter had saved her.
Written for Sunday photo fiction