One of his red sneakers would fit neatly in the palm of my hand. His fist is no bigger than a plum. I can’t help but watch as he stares intently into the small computer screen that she has propped up on the tabletop in front of him.
From my vantage point, and if I list ever so slightly to the right, I can see a line of full-clothed animals dancing across the screen. There is a lion, a hippo, something like a bear but furrier; they seem to be friends, this chorus line of cartoon creatures. Still, the little boy with red sneakers has yet to smile, as if this watching of dancing, singing animals is serious business, something like a job; and so it isn’t long before he begins to fidget, wagging his sneakers, his tiny pants suddenly too tight. The mother, who is busy talking on her phone, spies the boy losing interest and quickly–and not being a mother for nothing–leans over to push a button and just like that the screen winks to a picture of toy cars with oogling headlight-eyes and grilly grins racing and chatting. This, for the time being, stops the boy from squirming; in the meantime, one of his shoestrings has magically become untied.
Of course, it isn’t long before one red sneaker tumbles to the floor, bouncing once, twice. But never mind because he is busy watching race cars race and talk and even wink their headlights at one another. For the first time he smiles. Finally, when he does look down, he does two things: wiggles his shoeless toes, and sees his shoe on the floor. I can see him giving this some consideration: toes here, shoe there, and now, his considering all done, he begins to moan. The mother, whose telephone talk has never wavered, not once, glances his way and leans over yet again to push another button and a new cartoon begins, with more animals, more friendly chitchat. For the time being his lost sneaker is no longer important.
And so it goes: me sipping coffee, reading the newspaper, watching mother and son have their morning out together. In the end, thinking they must surely leave before me, they don’t, and as I walk by their table, newspaper in hand, he, with eyebrows raised, turns to watch me, as if he knows me and is struggling to remember when and where.
Once outside, I chance a glance back through the window and of course nothing has changed, he has not stopped watching me as if I were the guilty one and the very least I could do is stop to pick up his shoe. I cannot help but think that there is something not quite right about this, . . . this, . . . this motherly morning outing with her son but since I don’t know what to call it, I catch the first taxi that honks at me.
Photo by daiga ellaby on Unsplash.
