There is a coffee shop just two blocks away, straddling a corner. It has copious seating outside, mostly wooden seats carved for draining rain with umbrellas to hold it back a bit. It drizzled a bit while I sat there, the sideways wind carrying it on top of me anyhow.
I figured it to be a good day to renew my outside reading amongst other humans, having absorbed the CDC declaration that getting sick would now be nearly impossible. It wasn't crowded. As with most things now, repopulation of certain sites will come slowly. Some still need vaccination, some are exaggerating the extent to which they need to protect themselves, worrying a bit too much.
It was a time to watch humanity a bit. Parents were out with their descendants, probably some for the first time in months. These were happy moments.
Kids have a way of piggybacking on things, feeding off each other, sensing that something's about though they can't quite describe it. I picked that up while teaching, and could tell uncannily that the kids would be wound up or sluggish, depending on what had just happened or was about to happen. Whether it was consequential to an average adult was largely irrelevant, and those were teenagers.
Two little ones with their mother were quite the same, expending energy. They entered my eyesight from the left, bouncing around and running willy-nilly on the sidewalk, chasing nothing in particular but releasing themselves in near defiance.
The smallest one, a girl, looking about three, decided to let all caution fall away and darted between two parked cars right into the street. It wasn't as if the mother had lost track of her, either; it was, well, with two of them--the older one, a boy, might have been five or six--it's just a little too much occasionally.
For a long, terrifying second, the girl stood there, right in one of the traffic lanes. Fortunately, that was the cross street that's not traveled nearly the same as Downer Avenue, so no cars were turning onto it or lurching through the intersection. She wanted mom's attention, and she sure got it, freezing solid now, knowing she'd done something not good. Mom, about two steps behind and sensing the nightmare, quickly hustled out there and dragged her back.
As women often do, they check to see if anyone's been watching. (Sexist? Maybe. But men tend not to care.) She caught me. It was too late to posture. Awash in mortification, she glanced toward me and furtively rolled her eyes as if to say, I can't do a thing with this child. She gave off a look which could have been a smile.
I barked out, "Hey, have a good time." She managed a strained chuckle and tried to respond, but the kids were onto something else and she was too far away by then to make it out.
I went back to my reading. Another little girl about the same age happened past, surrounded by both parents, and they sat for a moment while she held court. Oh, yes: there was something profound to say, and she had the rapt attention of the adults, with her mom's curly hair and all. She sneaked a look at me from behind mom, but turned shy, as precocious children do. I waved anyhow, and dad saw me and grinned, proud as a peacock.
Back the next day, the sun dominated. More people, louder talk. Not full, but then, it's not that warm yet.
I checked back at the coffee shop and learned when it'll be all right to use the restrooms: another month. Then, too, the inside of the place will also open up and young-uns and I will bring their laptops and plink away, never too busy to make breaks to sip what will by then be cold drinks. We will observe the friendly, crowded din, glad that we are part of it, mindful of our once wondering whether it would ever happen again.
More people are in the park now. There are more, too, on the sidewalks. Motorcycles, seeking their arrogant freedom, whiz loudly past. It's more than spring. It's a deeper renewal.
We are turning the corner, adjusting the choke on the hesitant putt-putt of the lawn mower. It's been a while since we've brought it out. We're surprised when it starts up, however reluctantly. We shouldn't be. It always seems to.
Nothing earth-shattering here, nothing terribly momentous. Just life. For now, that's plenty.
Be well. Be careful. If you haven't been vaccinated, what's keeping you? With some luck, I'll see you down the road.
Mister Mark
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