Reposting Old Stuff

Sidewalk Traffic


The rhythmic and orderly
pattern of sidewalk stones
and of my thought
was interrupted
suddenly
by two forlorn
trampled
wet
green bills
lying folded on the red stones.
I had been looking up
into the sky
hedged in by towering buildings
square giants looking down at me.
The misplaced green
caught my eye
and I had to look twice.
The insignificant pieces of paper
had the power to stop
my sentient bulk of flesh
as I contemplated its presence.
And that day, for the first time yet,
I passed it by,
left it for another.

I cannot say it had no
effect on me,
for its pull stopped me once more.
I was curious
as to its fate.

As I stood there,
the warmth from the red brick
seeping into my upper arms,
I saw a man, early thirties.
He held a child in his arms,
and it was his child,
and he loved it.
He walked towards me,
bouncing the child in his arms,
holding it close,
showing it the world,
with love,
with him.
And he was oblivious
to me, to us,
to the green intrusion
on the red brick sidewalk.
He did not even glance at it.

Behind him trailed his wife,
also with baby in arms,
looking less happy,
less loving,
not bouncing,
showing,
or hugging,
but exasperated,
annoyed,
and wanting the trip to be over.
She hurriedly walked,
trying to catch up to the man,
and intently and focusedly
missed the bills on the ground
as well.

After the married couple
had turned the corner,
lost from my sight,
a woman behind a stroller approached.

She had the look of one who,
while pushing the stroller,
leaned on it for support.
She was tired,
and the wheels of the stroller
rolled right over the bills,
completely unnoticed.

Behind her,
running back and forth,
back and forth,
was a young boy,
maybe twelve.
His eyes were trying
to look at everything at once,
frustrated that his mother
kept calling to him,
telling him
to hurry along now.

His eyes were the first to stop
on the abandoned green paper
lying crushed on the sidewalk.
He was the first to bend down
and pick them up.

He ran to his mother to show her;
she barely glanced at it.
Her son had always collected
bits of half-forgotten memories
of another life.

He pulled the money towards his chest,
claiming it for his own.

But in that moment,
I saw in his eyes
that he realized
that he did not know
who it came from,
where they were now,
or if they needed it.

It was not sadness
etched on his young face,
nor guilt,
but a sudden, dawning,
broadening comprehension
of the other lives in this world,
of those outside of himself.
And the thought of him wasting it
stripped away the innocence
on his face
in that one moment
in the turning of the world.

Spring, 2004
Copyright LMH