Bystander
When I am left, again, holding disappointment for the world I am apart of, I am on a back winding road in torrential rainfall. Hazard lights blink revealing a vehicle up ahead: a dump truck, ambulance, no— a school bus stops. Yellow lights turn red in rain so thick I cannot see the tiny stop sign fold out. A man drapes a jacket over a child stepping off the bus, cradles him under his arm into their van parked feet from the bus stop. Back he goes three more times, sheltering tiny feet through the monsoon, and my eyes well with tears at this immense love. I am a bystander of their little world suspended between two strong arms.