Today, I watched two humans walk hand in hand towards a park. One clearly leading the other, with tenderness and care that one typically feels for one's own.
I was lucky that today was a holiday; lucky to be able to dwell on the ordinary gesture that would have otherwise gone unnoticed. But today, I noticed. In fact, I even allowed myself the rare luxury to stand and watch and process the emotions that made the moment whole. I liked how I felt.
And so, I lingered behind. They walked on. There was something captivating about the moment; a certain novelty even 'cause the walk was a rare one - the slow shuffle of feet; the gentleness with which one hand held the other; the concern the leading human felt for the other because of the other's fragility; the casualness of the stroll; the unrushedness of the moment; eyes fixed downward on the road rather than on the destination; and the deafening silence that enveloped the postcard scene.
After an eternity of about 4 minutes, they noticed I wasn't with them. They stopped and turned to look. The curiosity in their eyes so clearly distinguished from each other. One was more fierce and meant 'hurry up already'. The other simply meant 'I need you, err... don't I?' I ran ahead and caught up with them. Our trio continued the walk in silence.
Come to think of it, I don't remember my Dad walking me to the park, even though he must have. A fleeting thought crosses my mind - 'Will my babies remember the many walks I do with them on a daily basis?' I hope they do. And even if they don't, I'm glad to do them and just be in the moment with them. Our evenings are usually beautifully ordinary with Hope (my 4yr old girl), running ahead and asking me to walk on only the red lines and jump over the yellow ones; Zen (my 1.6yr old boy), looking at the evening sky and being beyond thrilled at spotting his 'Moo' and 'Ta' (moon and stars); Hope, falling down, picking herself up and wondering out loud which of her friends would be in the park that evening; Zen pointing out to the 'Kaws' (birds); Summer busily wagging her tail and sniffing everything en route. And while I'm replaying these moments in my head...
We reach the park. The two humans continue ahead. One leads the other up a short flight of stairs. I watch their hands. One, firm but now wrinkled; the other, chubby and eager. One, frail; the other, fragile. It's interesting how the strong hands that once led me are now leading my little guy. My dad. My son. Grandpa (Gampa) and his li'l Zen.
Zen seemed to enjoy his leisurely walk with his well-matched buddy. I think he enjoyed that Gampa took small, unsteady steps just like him; that Gampa didn't rush him and took his time too; that Gampa noticed the Kaws and funny-shaped 'tones' (stones) like him.
Have you noticed how similar our parents and kids can be, although at the opposite ends of life's timeline? How one goes from taking care of you to being taken care of, while the other goes from being taken care of to well... caring for you? How one goes from being independent to dependent, and the other, the other way around? I guess it's just the stillness of the moment that triggers the thought. But I love how I'm the essential link between the two and yet, they carry on perfectly fluidly, indifferent to me and the visual antithesis they're painting before me.
