Thirty years on the line and nobody ever asked me what I thought
My father worked the same mill. I swore I wouldn't. What I learned about pride, paychecks and the men who stand next to you for three decades.
Sample piece for previewing the site. Not a real submission.
Twenty-two years driving the same route. I know which kid will fall asleep against the window, which old man needs the extra second at his stop, which woman cries on Thursdays. None of them know my name. That used to bother me. Now I think it's the best part of the job. I carry them all, they get where they're going, and nobody has to thank anybody. That's a kind of love too, I think. Just quieter.
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