I was sitting on the stoop and across the street spied a Hispanic family of five amidst their travels. Out in front was a young man, possibly around 14, pushing a carriage with a young child (I believe it was a little boy) who looked to be about 2 or 3 years of age. Behind them were two other children, both riding bicycles, a girl and a boy, 11 and 9 respectively. Finally, bringing up the rear, several feet behind, and pushing a heavy looking cart filled to the top with laundry bags, was the mother. Taking in the manner in which she pushed the cart, I empathized with my perception of the arduous task. My attention refocused on the children when the eldest shouted and broke out into a run, taking off with the carriage at full speed. His siblings cycled in hot pursuit, but the impromptu race was short lived when the eldest stopped at the apartment building on the corner of the street, about four or five feet from where the race had begun. Technically, he won. But I got the feeling that the victory was in fact awarded to the young child in the carriage, whose outstretched, skyward directed arms mirrored the fist in the air poses of many a sport’s champion. The eldest opened the door to the apartment building and wheeled in the carriage. His siblings got off their bicycles and walked them inside. By this time, the mother had also reached the apartment building. She turned around so as to enter the building backwards and pull her cart up the small step that separated the sidewalk and entrance. But the eldest came out again, said something which made her laugh and still laughing, she surrendered the cart to him. With his newly acquired cargo, he disappeared into the building and she followed suit. I like to think he lovingly teased her in the manner that relatively happy older children are somewhat fond of doing to their Mothers. I have two younger brothers and many a time have borne witness to this lovely, lovely exchange between them and my Mother.