Westlake, Sunday morning. Too early for the mall to be open and the monorail has just started running when we buy the ticket for our once-a-year ride. Hardly anyone else is waiting and I am SO stoked to be in position to get my train-crazy Boy of Joy on and forward fast to that one narrow front seat where he can watch the train coast on its single rail. We have been so lucky to have everything line up to give us a chance at the front this one time that he might be just old enough to remember... and I'll remember for sure.
And the train pulls in and everybody gets off except one mother and one small boy, who have bought round trip tickets from the other end for the sole purpose of waiting for that moment when everyone else was off the train and before anyone else could get on to run to the narrow front seat so that small boy could watch the train coast on its single rail.
Then the doors open and that mother turns and sees me and my boy.
And she gets up.
She squeezes her small son's shoulder and whispers something in his ear and he stays sitting and she gets up.
And she moves to the seat behind him, and smiles at me.
And I seat my even smaller son on the narrow bench beside her small son and I sit beside her.
My boy is too little. He pops up like a jack-in-the-box and runs for my lap. She meets my eyes. "You sit there." Her words are few, clear, her accent rich.
I hold my child on my lap and perch on the narrow bench next to another mother's son, who looks at me uncertainly, looks back to his mother, and then look forward.
And together our children watch the train coast on its own rail.
At the Center I try to explain what this has meant to us-- "We only get to ride once a year..."
But there's no way to explain, and no need. She smiles, I smile, her son is in her arms, mine is in mine. I will remember, for sure.
And the train pulls in and everybody gets off except one mother and one small boy, who have bought round trip tickets from the other end for the sole purpose of waiting for that moment when everyone else was off the train and before anyone else could get on to run to the narrow front seat so that small boy could watch the train coast on its single rail.
Then the doors open and that mother turns and sees me and my boy.
And she gets up.
She squeezes her small son's shoulder and whispers something in his ear and he stays sitting and she gets up.
And she moves to the seat behind him, and smiles at me.
And I seat my even smaller son on the narrow bench beside her small son and I sit beside her.
My boy is too little. He pops up like a jack-in-the-box and runs for my lap. She meets my eyes. "You sit there." Her words are few, clear, her accent rich.
I hold my child on my lap and perch on the narrow bench next to another mother's son, who looks at me uncertainly, looks back to his mother, and then look forward.
And together our children watch the train coast on its own rail.
At the Center I try to explain what this has meant to us-- "We only get to ride once a year..."
But there's no way to explain, and no need. She smiles, I smile, her son is in her arms, mine is in mine. I will remember, for sure.
Happy Humanity, everybody.
