An older woman in her Shabbat best, stopping to give the man with no legs money. She does it covertly, so not to embarrass him with such tenderness bringing tears to my eyes. I watch his sad face light up when she takes his hand to squeeze it.
An infant on the train encased in her stroller like a pink Sherman Tank, her Muslim mom rocking it to and fro. Sitting across I watch this innocent entity yawn, her eyes fluttering like a cream-colored butterfly, oblivious to the din and jolts as she sweetly falls asleep.
A hard hat trying to woo a pretty girl with pizza.
“Oh come on,” he says, when she smiles, but keeps going. “It has anchovies,” he yells, as he wistfully watches her turn the corner without looking back.
A man in a wheelchair stopping to ask why I’m crying.
“Just having a, not so good day,” I tell him.
“Can I do anything for you?” he asks, like Jesus on the beach comforting his disciples.
“You just did,” I say, binding my wounds, remembering my legs, I tend to take for granted.