‘Teacher! Teacher!’ I hear a small voice screaming through the wind and across the parking lot as I exit my car. I turn around. I see him, this chunky wonderful little boy on his bike. He wobbles and propels himself forward on his machine. The bike is a bright green hornet shine. He is using training wheels; a third grader with training wheels but he is new to all of this. He’s landed here in the stranger world of Campbell Street and chaos; from far, far away. So far away.
His father, small and bent over his phone and up against the wind, this man who only recently lived in mountains and wind and sky and a thousand years, looks up and greets me carefully. ‘Good morning!’ I hold my breath as the little one teeters on the edge of the sidewalk, getting too close to the edge where cars slide by. They see him but it’s still unnerving to watch. He speeds up and careens into the parking lot. Now he’s on my right and I get a better look at him. He’s wrapped up well against the cold. He’s wearing trendy sneakers, a down jacket and riding a cool bike. They are blending quickly for survival. ‘Hello again!’ I say. ‘Is that a new bike?’ He looks at me. ‘Yes!’ ‘Well, I really like it!’ ‘Thank you’ he says. So we’re making some progress.
I look back, as I step up onto the sidewalk in the front of the entry door and I wave to his Dad but he is still hunched over his phone; this man from the mountains and a thousand years. The boy turns left with the bike and drives in the direction of the fence which opens onto the playground; so close to where there was a deadly shooting over the weekend. ‘See you later, alligator!’ I yell against the early morning dank and cement and wind and the empty playground with the swings. He’s silent. His Dad is silent. ‘Why would the teacher be talking about an alligator?’
690 Saint Paul 