6:45 a.m. Number 5 Train
On my way to work, lucky enough to get a seat, I look to my left where there’s a tall, skinny teenage boy leaning against the door, his iPhone in one hand, holding the hand of a little girl no more than 3, with the other.
Imagine a cocoa-faced doll dressed like an Eskimo…uncomplaining, content where she stood, clutching her juice box.
Now this could be disturbing if you choose to view it that way, my defenses dropping like a drawbridge, because without thought I held out my arms she, without pause, jumped into cuddling on my lap as if we were old friends.
I looked over at her, brother? Could this wisp of a lad be her dad, who shrugged then smiled as this tiny being happily nestled resting, what had to be, after so many stops, her weary little legs.
This is why I rarely wear mascara folks, because if I did, I’d be one chronic, crying, relatively well-dressed raccoon.