methinks

A New Year

They were a young family walking in the way young families do, in a cluster, Father leading, Mother and Little Son to the sides and one pace behind (Little Son desperate to close the gap, Mother conscious not to). I passed them while they were walking from the bus station to her mother's - to Waipo's - to celebrate the New Year.

It was early and cold and little son was rubbing his closed eyes with the back of his left hand. His right hand held his fathers fingers. Little Son could close his eyes and rub them with out worry if he held onto Father's fingers. Stumbling on something might even be good; then he'd get carried. But for the time being he toddled alongside, slowly waking up.

Father was wearing his one sports coat, but not because it was a holiday. He wore it everyday, and one could tell to look at it. Underneath the coat was a gray v-neck sweater his young wife had knitted. And under that was his best collared shirt. And peeking out from underneath that was the top to a set of thick long underwear. That's a lot of unders, but it wouldn't be any warmer inside Waipo's than it was walking down the street. His hair was combed but not neat; he'd washed it the night before and slept on it while it was still damp. His left thumb was touching the back of Little Son's hand. Their gazes were equally inattentive. It's a survival skill all men are born with, the ability to give eyes to their limbs so their minds can go elsewhere. Somewhere warm, far away from the in-laws. At that moment he was imaging what it would feel like to hold his son's hand in five years.

Mother was full of quiet fidgets. And with every step three or four would find their way out. Two would come out her eyes. "There is a stain on his pants. My mother will see that. Is Little Son still managing?" One would come out her hand to harvest imaginary lint from Father's shoulder and back. She wore her hair pulled back into economical elegance. A rich, burgundy silk scarf decorated her collar, adding festivity to the plainness of her dress, lending color to her face. Every fourth or fifth step she'd heft the plastic bag in her right hand to make sure the sausages inside hadn't been jostled out by the previous hefting. They had cost her family two days and a pig; she wasn't going to leave them lying along the street. They were for her parents. They'd taste the quality and know she'd been right to move to the countryside to marry Father.

As we got closer to each other, I wanted to smile and nod, hoping they'd smile in return and let me share in their young family moment. But I didn't smile. I love to watch but hate to stare. I met eyes with Mother - she was the only one looking at eyes - and made that polite grimace people do when they won't risk a smile. She looked away. Little Son nearly ran into my leg, but I stepped aside. It will be a few more years before he's mastered the daydream-walk. Will he want to hold Father's hand when he doesn't need to? I lent my eyes to my legs and thought about that as I continued home.