Standing at a traffic stop on my way to the grocery store, up and to my left, the light turned from yellow to red while ahead of me, its kinsman gave me the directive to walk. On the other side waiting to cross the street, but as yet unaware of the permission granted by the signal change, stood, judging by their facial features and dreads, a family of three: a young boy, maybe 8 or 9, an adult, maybe his mother, though could easily pass for an older sister, and a young girl, most likely his sister, possibly age 11 or 12.
As I approached, I could tell something was wrong. It was in the way the adult was slightly bent towards the boy, completely focused and, at the same time, softly engaging with him. It was in the way her right hand had curved around behind his head and was gently caressing the light brown dreads peeking out from the right side of his hoodie. It was in the way he faced out, his head held up, almost stoically, but for the red eyes blinking back tears, and a quietly pained expression, on his young, brown light-skinned face.
As I got closer, the adult noticed the now changing traffic light, and all three drew together, moving quickly past me.
I felt the love and care in her presence with him. And though he was blinking back his tears, that seemed to be his choice; she didn’t appear to react negatively to them. I hoped that meant he felt safe enough to shed some more if he needed to.