What I never understood in elementary school was why my dad would always tell me to go on the bus last. At first I believed he just wanted me (be) respectful to others by (let) them go on first. Now I realize he just wanted to spend as much time as possible me.
While others were (get) on the bus, my father whispered, "Behave, son. I love you. " I replied, "Dad, I love you, too. " I would then give my father a hug. At that moment, my turn came and I walked up the stairs. I (hurry) went to my usual seat and strapped on my seat belt. I looked at the window and my father's hand was already there. I followed our time-practiced ritual(惯例), and I put my hand in front of his.
Even though there was glass window between us, it was almost as if we were actually touching each other, my small hand in his bigger one. For a moment we were (connect) as one, and seemed that all outside noises were gone. My mind was calm and full of love. Everybody was moving around with the busy morning, we were there as calm as ever. As the bus roared to life, I watched my dad wave goodbye to me. I leaned back in my seat and felt the (warm) of my fatherˈs hand soak (渗透) into me.
