Waiting for the bus

I must have waited at this bus stop a thousand times, watching the seasons turn a little every day, Our mother would walk up with us and when it was very cold, we would slip under the fold of her soft camel-beige coat, clinging to her legs and the scent of her soap until we could hear the strain of the bus's motor as it started up the hill towards us. We were still morning slow, condensation spiders were still scuttling up the single-glaze panes of our bedroom windows, egg shells still cooling on blue melamine saucers under yellow filament bulb and our breath streamed in clouds from our nostrils and lips where we stood, waiting.