Turn around
In midtown, a father has his son sit next to me. The train is pretty full, so the father remains standing. Kid gets up and the protective parent immediately asks him where he’s going.
“I’m turning around.”
The child props himself on his knees next to me, staring out of the smudged window. Quietly humming to himself.
At the next stop, some seats open up and the father gathers his son in his arms and sits them both down together. Immediately, the kid turns around to stick his nose on the glass. The father takes out his phone.
Every single person on this car is facing toward the middle. We’re all looking at each other without seeing anyone. All of us except this kid.
What does he see?
Why aren’t all of our noses pressed to the window?
We’ve seen it?
It’s nothing new. His developing brain is taking it all in. From the iron pillars whipping by to the people on the platform. From the flashing bulbs to the dried up dirty raindrops on the other side of the glass. It’s all new.
Is it possible to see the world the same way? Once we think we know it?
At 59th & Lex, a young woman blocks my view with her bellybutton. Show it off, girl. Show. It. Off.
I can see the father, though. He’s still on his phone.