Sitting on the bus during the first leg of my morning commute, a mother, her hands full of child and stroller, boarded.
Leading with the stroller, which, even in its folded-up state made me think of a large baby carriage, deftly, she slid it into the space under the seat with her right hand, while steadily supporting her child on her lap with her left.
The child was bundled up. In addition to the winter coat with the hood on, firmly, a lighter blanket, somehow fastened to stay in place, was draped over everything below the eyes— big brown eyes, made even more so by the unmasked inquisitiveness of its owner.
Barely settled on the throne that was his mother’s knee (I felt the child was a young boy), he immediately pointed at something off the bus. Mom, cradling him closer with so much unmistakable love, pointed along, listening to and answering questions in turn— the exchange too low for me to understand.
At one point, the child leaned away from her— body curving backwards, limbo like (making me wonder with a smile, “how low can you go?”)— to get a better view of the passengers getting on the bus. I imagined those big brown eyes somehow managing to get larger to take in all the new.
By the time the bus pulled up to their stop, it was quite full. I found myself nodding in gratitude when a gentleman offered and then assisted with the baby carriage, affording her the opportunity to more securely cradle her precious bundle and make their way of the bus.