Standing at the bus stop this afternoon, across the street, as they made their way along the sidewalk, my gaze landed on what felt like a family unit comprised of a mom, her two sons and her daughter.
They looked to be of South Asian descent.
The woman and the boys were a few paces ahead of the young girl.
One of the boys who was rather tall--taller than the mom—looked to be in high school—maybe a Junior or a Senior. Slightly in front of him, giving off younger brother vibes, the other boy, doppelganger to the first in everything except said height, looked to be a 7th or 8th grader. Height wise, he came up to the mother’s shoulders.
Seconds after noticing the trio, I watched the girl jog to clasp her right hand with her mother’s outstretched left. Maybe a 5th or 6th grader, she continued to hold her mother’s hand while anchoring a white canvas bag decorated with small hearts hanging off her left shoulder.
Something in the initial togetherness of the woman and the two boys, followed by the same inexplicable something when the girl ran to clasp her hand to the woman’s, widened my heart. I hadn’t even realized, until the girl ran up to clasp it, that the woman had stretched out her hand; she hadn't given a look back to accompany the gesture.
Thinking about mothers traveling out in the world in the company of the growing children in their care, I snapped a mental picture of love.