She was younger than me, and her baby, a boy, was just a few months old. His little head peeked out from a carrier strapped tight to her chest.
We passed on the street.
Just that: two women, walking at dusk with their sons, passing on the street. Nothing mind-boggling, almost. Almost, because she looked at me, then at my son. The briefest, barest pause. And then a smile.
That's it.
But what happened, I know, was this: when she saw us, she saw her future. She knew her baby would grow up, and be okay. She knew he'd spend time with her, at dusk. She knew, in that tiny second, in that wisp of a moment, that one night, 9 years hence, she would take her son out to dinner, just the two of them, and they would giggle in the restaurant, and when they left, they would walk, and swing their arms in unison. In that brief moment, with that baby strapped to her chest, she caught a glimpse.
Her smile washed over me, a fine mist, and it pleased me, because I remembered. I remembered what it was like to hold an infant like that, to feel his weight, and the gentle push of his knees against my chest. To smell his baby hair, and his sweet, sleepy breath.
And so, when she smiled at me, I smiled back. He's going to be fine, my eyes told her.
I squeezed my son's hand, and we continued on.
