Buzz and Woody

I drove the car slowly up the street. Pan boy sat in the back. We do this morning drive every week, from our house to day care, it’s the same drive and it’s always a little different. This day it was quiet, no music, no baby squeaking and no chatting from the four years old. 

A bus turned slowly left in front of us, briefly we could see figures blurred by the thick glass windows clouded by fog or condensation. A pushbike rolled past us at a pedestrian crossing, the tires were gloss black with water from a puddle. It’s always a little different. 

Both of us watched the suburb turn, hustled movement of people on their way. Some of the trees were starting to change colour with the season, the traffic on Short Street was fine. Students in uniform walked to school. It was contemplative.

We arrived. 

Breaking the silence of seven minutes a small voice spoke, full of query. 

“Dad? Why when Andy’s home are his toys not alive, but when he goes out they do come alive?”

Why indeed. It’s the same drive every week and it’s always a little different.