I remember the bus evacuation drill. 

Pulling up to the front of the school, finding the Principal standing there waiting for the buses could only mean one thing.

Bus drill.

My first grade heart hammered in desperation.

The driver opened the hatch door at the back of the bus and jumped down to the parking lot below demonstrating the ease of exiting the vehicle in case of an emergency. In a neat and orderly fashion we were instructed to leave our items on the seat, line up in the aisle and when our turn came follow suit and jump.

I remember remaining in my seat until the bus was empty.
I remember clutching the sides of the bus frame in stubborn defiance and fear when I could no longer put off the inevitable.
I remember the bus driver coaxing me, assuring me that he was right there to catch me.

I put no trust in him.

I remember him pointing out that everyone else had done it and they were all fine.
I remember him asking “What if the bus was on fire?”
I remember knowing, deep in my core, that I would rather burn than jump the three feet to certain death. That much I knew for sure.

Long forgotten, it all comes rushing back on a crisp blue morning in September.

Every detail of that morning hits me full force, fills every cell in my body with panic and horror as I watch the sky rain people and realize they chose to jump.