In the thick of the tar, asphalt, mayhem, the Matron noticed a woman -- whom she knows just by name and not well -- standing with her four year old son and carting an infant in a stroller--perched on a corner to watch the big trucks do their business. The four year old in red and blue cowboy boots, a baseball uniform and cowboy hat. Suffice it to say: adorable.
And as the Matron watched this clearly tired woman hold her little guy's hand and point out specifics ("see those big tires, honey? See that? This is where the tar comes out") while juggling the baby and fighting the beating sun, the Matron was transported three + years back, when Merrick wore only fireman (he's not gender neutral) boots and hats -- mostly naked in between.
She remembers standing on endless corners watching buses, trucks, workers, trains, airplanes and more -- first with Stryker and then with Merrick. She held their hands and discussed the nuances of 'workers' and their tools, the boys, rapt. There was no more important place on the planet than that corner, the great big world beckoning and the small hand securely tucked in hers, firm and soft at the same time.
Those days are gone.
So she smiled a little to watch this other mother holding a small boy's hand while marveling at mechanics on a corner as the big trucks rolled by. As each truck rumbled past to the child's delight, she remembered the dewy heads at bedtime and sticky faces, the thrill of what now seems ordinary.
She wanted to shout out the window: "Time rolls faster than that dump truck! Remember this!"
Instead, she remembered her own sweet moments and embarrassed her 14 year old by kissing his forehead at bedtime.