On the bus.

On the bus.

The little girl sits in front of me with her mother. Her mother is absorbed in her book of tehilim. Hebrew scrawls across one side of the pages and Amharic on the other. The little girl’s braids stick out in all directions – giggling girlishly at the thought of laying flat. Of obeying gravity. Of ceasing to be playfully-of-a-child. Bright colors. Orange and pink. Blue socks on small feet in white sandals.
She sees me in the reflection of the glass barrier in front of our rows. She notices my shoulders. So I notice them too. A dark brown shirt that hugs my upper arms – baring my shoulders to the world. What are they saying? Woman. Skin likes fresh air and sun. Happy it’s summer.
She begins to mimic my bare shoulders by pulling down the edges of her own shirt to reveal her own beautiful shoulders to the world. Then she looks to my image, just above her own, reflected back at her, in comparison. She smiles faintly at what she sees. I don’t know why. I am happy that she smiles, though.

Then she notices me smiling back at her – noticing her as she notices me – and she turns childish-shy. She plunges her face into her mother’s side. She is embraced in one arm, while in the other arm a book of poems to God is open revealing the treasured content inside. Both arms holding life.

They get off the bus at the next stop. Hand in hand. The psalms now closed until the next opportunity. And I realize that in my sleepy haze I have taken the wrong bus. And I thank God for it. For the beauty I saw in the seat in front of me.




[Translation Note: tehilim = psalms]