It would've only taken 17 muscles...

It felt much like many other mornings in August. The sun had long ago decided to banish any clouds that were close by to the far reaches of the horizon, allowing her an interrupted view of within her reach. Through some miracle I managed to awake early on the one day I designated for sleeping in. Having moved through my morning rituals with remarkable efficiency, I left the house with the sole purpose of completing my rather short errand list in as little time as possible. I’ve travel one of three routes whenever I leave home depending on what my destination is but they all at some point cross the nearest main thoroughfare. Since the streetcar was the transportation artery of choice this morning, I was glad. The route that brings me to the streetcar stop is far more pleasing to the eye than the other two and it affords me a few city blocks of a utopia. I suppose my resignation to take a more hands off approach has allowed me to take in all that is quite familiar along my journey this morning. Its not that I never noticed the details that make the journey unique like how the large white house leans to the left ever so gently or how those two mastiffs at the two story blue house with the cast iron fence cease to bark when I whistle, it was that I had found them ordinary and had come to expect it. As I made my way to the streetcar, the sun was inching ever so higher into the morning sky and since noon wasn’t that far off, I decided that it would be best if I picked up the pace. This large olive green passenger train with its original wooden seats and benches, plastic coated wire that rings a simple buzzer and the distinct stench of burning spinach has been the preferred means of public transit for me since childhood. It’s as though its mere presence says “Yes, technological advances are fine but nothing will replace or remove me from this landscape ever.” The ride is relatively smooth but certainly noisy and is best enjoyed from an open window. I rode for some time and watched one by one as the empty seats began to fill and the conversations of locals & tourist alike began to overlap into a low hum that wouldn’t be contained within the car. Neither would it last longer than breath that it was riding on as it floated above the tracks.

I got off at my stop and tackled objective number one, which in this case was a brief but important meeting with my boss (the ax is falling but not on me!!). Moving on to the rest of my list, I board the streetcar once again and this time found myself in the direct line of sight of one of the most beautiful tragedies I’ve beheld in sometime. It felt like an eternity as we stared at each other without speaking a word holding a complete conversation. She’d placed her hand on the baby’s seat just so as to keep it from moving during the ride. He’d just fallen asleep and being a newborn, she was just grateful for the brief instance of quiet his resting afforded her, even if it was on a noisy streetcar during lunch hour. I wanted to focus elsewhere, to look at the traffic or the grass or the asphalt even. I couldn’t, no, I didn’t want to my shifting eyes to deliver a glance that could be read as condescending,

Her brown eyes were opened soo wide naturally, that trying to escape them was more work than just starring into them as blankly and honestly as possible. I didn’t know her story but I know many stories that have this same plot twist in them and with a deductive reasoning the details could’ve been discovered. This time though, I had no interest in the details, it was as though they were uniquely the same, like the work of a seamstress that makes designer jeans, each pair unique in its creation process but each pair ultimately a pair of designer jeans. Her she was, walking down a road that is all too familiar and she asking me to see it from where she stood. All I could do was say that I respect you no less because of where you stand and in doing so stood with her. If for only those 10 minutes while our paths crossed, I stood with her. I knew her joy was not mine to share but it felt as though she wanted me to smile anyway and I couldn’t. An innocent smile was hard to find because my innocence has long been abandoned and I suspect hers has as well…