Bystander
When I am left, again, holding disappointment for the world I am apart, I am on a back winding road in torrential rainfall. Hazard lights blink to reveal 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 unfold. A man drapes a jacket over a child stepping off the bus, cradles him under his arm into their mini-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.