If Nothing Else, Notice the Finer Points

James and I went for a walk downtown yesterday. How blessed we are to live on the verge of a miniature city, with its rutted, paver sidewalks and concrete buildings and people, all different shades, hurrying or scuffing along.

I am a person who smiles at most people I see, especially when we are the only ones passing on a quiet block. I sometimes say "hello." Often, after the person whom we are passing smiles back, I avert my eyes, in a sort of grateful, submissive way.

Thank you for seeing me. Thank you for acknowledging me.

There are the people who don't respond. I don't take this personally. Their hands are crammed deep in their pockets. They are often racing, rushing to wherever, an important place with important events. They may be rushing to the bedside of a sick relative. They may be rushing to an apartment, hoping that they won't throw back the door and find their lover in an embrace with another. They may be rushing to a Happy Hour, where they will throw a few wrinkled bills on the sticky table and order up another round.

I grew up in the country. Shadows were created by trees, not buildings. Time was measured by the amount and the quality of the sunlight, not a clock. Mosquitos were our official animal, not cockroaches. Or water bugs, if that's what you prefer to call them. A trip to the library meant a twenty minute haul, along roads edged with opposum carcasses and pastures, in our Volkswagen Bug. The library was not a treasure map of footsteps, one in front of the other, away.

James and I stopped at the upscale candy store, with its overpriced truffles and prom-dress pink wallpaper. The fancy people in fancy clothes talking on the curb in front of the shop did not hold the door. I held my own door, struggling to keep it open as I shoved James' stroller, with its wheels that flipped and turned against the grain, up over the stoop. I noticed this, but it didn't bother me. There are so many other things to be bothered about--a lost job, a lost child, an eviction, an uncle with cancer, a son's unrelenting cough.

I bought myself a box of candy, justified by the inclusion of dark chocolate (health benefits!). I bought Mac and James each a sprinkled covered pretzel. During the cold walk home, I reminded James of his treat. I pointed out a skim of ice on the canal, swags of pine and hemlock on doors, and emergency vehicles screeching down roads. We stuck our head in the entries of cave-like parking gararges and yelled, "Hellllo?"

We yelled, "Echo!" too.

In our house, with its yellow light and colorful walls and brigade of tea pots lined above cabinets in the kitchen, James sat at the table, inspecting his pretzel.

Bu, deen, reh, oh-ain, peeple, he said, pointing at the sprinkles.

After noticing the details, he took a bite.