There are two men, both somewhere in the murky space of middle age when the person may be 41 or 55 - hard to tell. Somewhere in that murky middle when you wonder what hand of cards they’ve been given - was it a good hand? A hard hand? The luckiest hand of them all?
How much can you glean from one’s face, from how they hold their body?
Did they inherit the “good” ageless set of genes, or the ones where every tremor and stressor turns into a wrinkle?
What truths do our bodies give away? What lies do they conceal?
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There are two men who are school crossing guards.
They don neon-electric yellow safety vests and carry stop signs - real, red stop signs - as if they stopped at a corner and borrowed the corner’s sign, just for a few moments.
One of the men stations facing east. He is quiet and kind, exuding gentleness and trust. The other stations facing north. He is bold and loud, exuding confidence and ease. He wears bright red high tops.
They stand tall and proud as they march to their respective crosswalks, stop signs in hand, as parents, children, and neighbors approach to cross the busy streets on their way to school, work, or errands.
They chat and smile, “Good morning, have a great day! …. How’d the test go? …. Have a good night, see you tomorrow!” They know the kids’ names and the distracted parents; they watch the kids grow into their own skin each year.
The men do not have to brace themselves to live through winters.
Some rain may come, but most of the time it doesn’t. Instead there’s the steady, predictable, mostly sunny 62 degrees kind of days that require another type of endurance: how to discern the passing of time with only subtle reminders.
Are you paying attention?
The men usher kids and families and neighbors from one side of safety to another.
What a responsibility, what a gift.
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There is a girl who crosses the street multiple times of day, going about her daily life. Sometimes she’s rushed. Sometimes she’s talking to a best friend. Sometimes she’s texting. Sometimes she’s got a yoga mat strapped across her back.
She smiles, always (even if she doesn’t feel like it).
Sometimes the light is red and she can exchange a few pleasantries, “There’s a nip in the air today,” “TGIF we made it!,” “Did you feel the small earthquake this morning?!”
She smiles.
The girl feels safer crossing the streets in their presence. The big red stop sign reminds her of the one her sister stole during high school. She smiles and and tears up a little, wondering where those simpler days went; wishing she could tease out a few more mundane memories to hold onto in her heart.
The crosswalks feel empty without the crossing guards; the summers feel long.
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One day, the girl sat in her car, waiting in a line of cars to drive down the road. She was going on an adventure, and did not know when she’d be back. School was still in session. Soon, chatty kids wearing over-sized backpacks and tired parents holding their hands would congregate by the man facing north and the man facing east to make their way home.
But for a moment, all was quiet.
Perched up on her little hill, the girl could see the men exposed as humans. The loud, bold one stood head down, eyes locked into his phone, finger moving up and down. The quiet, gentle one stood staring up into the sky, as if he was looking up for the first time, a small smile stretched across his face.
Are we all a little bit of each of them?, she wondered. Kind and bold, gruff and distracted, absorbed and in awe?
Thank you for the safe crossing, she offered to them as she kept driving, unsure of where she was going, but feeling good and certain they’d be there for her tomorrow.
love, lindy