Every morning, I cross them over, guiding them to the vessel that awaits, making sure their passage is as safe and swift as possible.
Some of them seem so sleepy. Others are confused, restless. Every once in a while, one is forlorn, knowing. But they come. They all come. And I bring them safely across the road.
So many questions, day in and day out. It’s not like they’ll find out before they get there, so I’ve become an expert at fielding their queries.
They like me, mostly. They call me a crossing guard, which… isn't entirely inaccurate, I suppose. It's what they see me as, at least. Some say the vessel looks like a school bus. Whatever makes them more comfortable, I guess. Whatever makes it hurt less.
They're never quite ready for it, and the ones who are look at me, empty eyes beyond acceptance, like they've already seen where they're going and know it's the only place left for them. I wish I could say I was numb to the process of bringing spirits to the other side, but it always hurts more with children.
10/26/17: I was watching my siblings walk to their bus stop this morning. I was also thinking about kids passing away before their time, and how much I wish they had someone to guide them safely to eternity.