On the bus
On the bus, there is a little girl in a bright purple sweatshirt like grape cotton candy with a bow over her ear so big and happy its crinoline has crinoline. Her hair is like mine at the age — short, the ends of each strand co-mingling just above her jawline. And the baby blue bow in her hair is kissed with happy daisies.
At the next stop, a mother ushers two little rascals onto the bus. They plop into the seats to which the girl stands adjacent. The littlest one is small enough that to him, the world is overwhelming. His focus resides on the red plastic action figure that he clutches motionless in his hands. It is his lifeline on this busy morning bus. Or perhaps he was just reprimanded by his mother and he is licking his wounds in the only way a boy that young can — innocently, remorsefully, bemusedly. His brother is the funny one here.
Picture the mischievous smile that sparks dimples on a young boy’s face. Can you? This is what he wears.
The youngest brother is sitting next to the girl’s grandmother while the girl — shall I give her a name? Sally — stands by her grandmother’s knees, hand wrapped as far around the yellow pole as it can go, and faces the boys. I can’t quite determine her eyes’ path, but I imagine that they follow San Francisco passing by over the boys’ heads, and ever so often land on their faces, perhaps with vague interest or disinterest.
But the mischievous little rascal is another story. He listens to her grandmother speak in Mandarin on the phone and sneaks sly, smiling glances at the girl and her grandma and her mom and the air. What is he thinking?
And it is so lovely that I could cry. This innocence. And the tickle in my nose and tears in my eyes I don’t quite understand but I think it must be a longing and a loving of some sort. And a joy and a hope and a sadness and a remembrance. But mostly a gratitude.
to be here.
to witness.
for innocence.