I remembered that when I was a little child, I used to look for Sunday of the week. Yes, I was so looking forward to an adventure. Now, I still have a strong _ for buses. I used to wonder where those gigantic   buses finally stopped. On sunshine Sundays, that's my adventure times. He took me to the bus stop. Time passed, while I was growing impatient, he was smiling, as he always does. It was really not that easy to get on a bus as often as we do today. I was so worried that the bus driver would have missed us. I waved my hands so high with all my strength. I looked hopefully at him. He didn't move at all. He was still standing. It seemed that the late and infrequent coming of the bus wasn't any trouble to him at all. He took my hand. We managed to find seats on the upper deck. I was so excited. Only sitting beside the windows made me happy. Looking at the rewinding buildings, streets and people through windows from a higher ground was so much fun. Then, he was sitting peacefully by me and whispered to me where the bus finally would stop. I was curious about what would be the next stop of our destination as much as what really means something to him. That is me. I know now. I am all he cares. He wants me to be happy, as he always does. That's the strong bond between father and son. Childhood, naive  and precious, you showed me the world and the way I look at the world. I am so grateful for your presence in my life. Thanks, you are so wonderful! Who is "he" throughout the text?
The brother of the writer. The son of the writer. The father of the writer. A bus driver.