#139 Crosswalk

Sometimes, children in large numbers complicate simple tasks—like crosswalks. As my mom and I were attempting to herd more than a dozen small children through a crosswalk, Jack somehow began to lag behind (this was not caused by large numbers, this is normal for Jack—the large number of children merely kept me from keeping pace with Jack to urge him forward). 

As Jack was about three paces behind me, I crossed paths with a man walking in the opposite direction—his speed was unusually fast (I can’t say for certain, but I attribute it to the high number of children, and a desire to leave them quickly behind). About one and a half seconds after he passed, I heard a thud, followed by the sound of Jack crying—a collision. As I turned to help Jack, the man was now to the other side. It was a hit-and-keep-speed-walking. 

Upon closer examination, I could tell the man had been wearing a watch—I would guess made of metal—and I would conclude that the band was woven—a fact not important, other than it had left a perfect imprint on Jack’s forehead, where blood was now collecting (I’m telling you, unusually fast). 

Confused at how this could have happened I asked Jack (of course, only after offering comfort, making sure he was okay, getting him safely out of the middle of the road, yada, yada), “Did you not see the man?” He replied that he had not. So I asked, “Were you looking down at the street?”

And then Jack said something that shed light on SO many of my dealings with him, “I was looking right at him. I just didn’t see him.” 

Yes. Yes, that’s exactly it. You are looking right at me...