Cylinders

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The two were there on the subway bench—just like countless others who had sat in their place before. Yet, they were different. They carried awestruck joy in their disposition as a private moment was shared in a very public place. A roll of paper emerged from her bag, possessing five black and white images in a sequence, all a little blurry while still identifiable as to what they were. He took her hand and traced her fingernails, one by one, as they traded glances between each other and these images self-evident of the new life that is to come. It was all optimism, all wonder, all joy, all pure hope on display. As they descended the subway car, he took her carefully with his arm on her back, guarding her with his life—the one who carries the shared life they will be bringing forth in months’ time.

...


As the morning’s steps are traced once again, the path of ten minutes by, there are innocent babes bundled up and ported on wheels. Slightly older young blokes and misses propel themselves to their destination with a push off one foot and a gliding platform holding the other, all with their watchful caretaker following closely behind. There is one in particular—dare I call her self’s favorite—that tries to defy her previous high of reached speed every morning. She hurls down the sidewalk, leaving her mother exasperatingly far behind her, but her mother seems to bear consolation in that her little one is fearless. Still, there are others more cautious, like the little lad who needed his mother to hold his hand down every step in the passage to the subway, all while bearing a Toy Story helmet with Buzz Lightyear on it—presumably one of his favorite idols of whom he wishes he could be like, but is not there yet. By those charged with care, there is such patience on display even if a straining reach is what achieves it.

...

Almost everyday, his hope seems to parallel that which is in the crate set upon the corner bearing his possessions…tattered, scattered, bearing little substance beyond the scraps of the meal begged for the day before and the cardboard sign on which his life is laid bare with just a few words. Some days, he stands, hunched over in the path of those who pass through, hoping that he will be noticed and seen. Other days, there is resignation to simply sit and be ignored. Is he not too a son? Or maybe even a father? With an aching heart, this self wonders if there are others who see him, and most of the days, the heart continues to ache. Yet then, that one morning as self’s steps led up to his corner, a man of dignity in the world’s eyes met the one without for a moment and gave an offering to provide for his needs, all while the eyes locked and a shake of hands was shared. Strikingly evident, this man of dignity in the world was also one of dignity of heart.

...

A pane of glass set in brick and mortar tucked away in the intimacy of self’s street—today the shades descended, revealing three generations behind. A dinner table up to the window ledge, set with the bodies of young boys eagerly peering with wondrous eyes at the sights passing ever by. A mother and grandmother observed and watched while conversing themselves, only to detract the boys’ attention for a moment in order that all could burst forth with a peal of laughter, one that comes from the gut and a lightness of heart. A simplicity in youth, wisdom, and old age, all intertwined for those few moments that remind us that we are not so far apart as we think we are.

...

For once, the heavy sights recede a while…for now, there are no crashing waves of a slap across a child’s face, a cursing mouth of a parent, an ignored cry of plea by a helpless one, a continued neglect of the displaced—known one made invisible—on the same corner everyday. For today, the bubbles of isolation make contact with another, causing them to shatter and be now exposed. To this, we remember…we all rise and fall together; we are gathered mist that will return again to its own ring, only to be set forth once again to become cylindrical and rise with a blow of air.