Tale # 3

Nestled body curled into his mother’s body gait. The shape of a tired little one wrapped clinging to his mother’s warmth, brings the infinity of my senses grinding to a halt to breathe in this moment.

We are crossing the street. – Yet my heart skips a beat in the knowledge that one day this little child will be grown and bustling about through this world. Soon he will be sidestepping and breathing in precious moments, never knowing the power of his own existence. His eyes drift softly between waking-ness and sleep. He dozes as the world bustles, the world worries, makes war, and oblivion. His left arm and leg hang loosely in the warm breeze of car exhaust. The vehicles in our midst urgently attempting to rush their occupants to the next summer sun filled destination.

Nothing breaks the mother’s attentive caress of her son’s head. She's stroking his black hair, coaxing his sleep as she walks. Curling lovingly inward to nuzzle him with her cheek. All while walking with the grace of a goddess across the length of the intersection. Time seemingly slows in moments of beautiful irony.

The boy’s left hand clasps sleepily a toy gun. It trigger teeters precariously at his fingertips. The mother’s black carrying bag, firmly strapped to her torso, has a beautiful, crimson orange blooming flower peaking out of one of the pockets and below it a pin that states plainly “peace”.