As the bus made its way to the
stop, I watched the guardian and the little girl stand up. Holding the
girl’s right hand, the guardian, who had been sitting in the aisle seat, now
stepped out and back, resulting in her charge being braced against her front,
both of them facing towards the exit.
As guardian and child stood in place, the bus jerked along, making
the journey to the stop, quite rocky. But together, they stood firmly in this
tableau until the bus came to a complete stop and opened its doors.
With the guardian wearing what felt like the little one’s school back pack, the girl, possibly age 5 or 6, still in the lead and still holding hands with her guardian, squeezed past the new passenger, and exited the bus.
I found myself thinking back to how the guardian had them standing and waiting by their seats, making sure they only moved when everything was in place for a smoother exit. At first glance it might seem like such a small thing but I appreciated how present she was—it felt like a decision born out of being present and born out of care. I also like to think that, subconsciously, she was teaching the young girl to practice, whenever possible, being comfortable with slowing down, with stillness, and with being secure in her balance before making a move.
This was the second time I’d noticed the pair during the bus ride and the second time I’d contemplated the idea of presence and care with them in mind. The first time was back when I’d boarded the bus and I saw the guardian smile down at the girl from behind her mask. She was turned towards the young one, looking down, her eyes full of warmth behind her glasses, giving her undivided attention. In turn, the little girl was looking up, holding her gaze and smiling back. I took the mental snapshot capturing, to my mind, a moment of presence and care in which a little girl knew that she was loved.