Shopping bags from Target in tow, I boarded the bus. After dipping my fare card, I squeezed past another passenger, located an empty seat and noticed the little girl along the way.
Sitting near the front, she was munching, steadily, contentedly, on the potato chips from the medium sized bag of Utz in her right hand. She looked to be about 4 or 5, her skin a smooth dark brown, her eyes a bright, inquisitive, darker brown, avidly taking in her surroundings. Her hair was hidden under a hot pink winter beanie with the word, Love, emblazoned in capital letters across the top. That theme was echoed in the pattern of tiny white hearts decorating her black slacks.
I didn’t notice her Guardian— her father, I believe, — until he stood up when someone pressed the button for the next stop. In his right hand he held a small hot pink book bag, and with his left, carefully guided her up to standing. Once he was satisfied that she was set, he continued to hold her hand, but looked back up to check on the bus’s progress.
Seconds passed, and he looked down at her again, this time seemingly with the singular focus of being in the moment, quietly taking her in. And there was something about the look that had me softening and thinking thoughts of love and kind, protective fathers. Then, perhaps realizing it was taking some time for the bus to arrive at their stop, he remained standing, but carefully guided her back down into a different seat. While she looked completely unfazed; still eating her chips and observing the sights around her, I attributed some, if not all, of her ease, perhaps, to feeling safe in the arms of love.
When the bus came to a stop, a few other passengers queued up behind him and waited patiently as he, once again, carefully guided her up, then slowly down the stairs, out of the bus, and onto the sidewalk.