Crossing the Street

By Francesca Morizio
walk sign

I guess I’m an adult. I mean, I am, legally. Plus I am pretty good at talking to Comcast on the phone for two hours without going crazy and I buy the bulk contain of mixed nuts at Target and because I have a job I buy the peanut free mixed nut blend and if that doesn’t say adulthood then I don’t know what does. I also spend most of my free time lying in bed eating One Direction freezer pops and watching Enrique Iglesias music videos on YouTube. So I think it’s fair to say it’s a toss up at this point.

So because I am young and hip and live in a city, I walk to public transportation to get to work. On my commute I see this boy every day. He’s probably in 3rd or 4th grade; his mom walks him to school some mornings, the same route as my commute (for a few blocks, anyway). They turn after one intersection and I keep heading down on the same road. I smile at them if we make eye contact. They usually smile back. It’s nice.

Anyway, one day I crossed the intersection when the walk sign wasn’t illuminated. It’s a one way street and there were no cars coming and I was running late and I just crossed the street. The boy must have tried to walk as well; I heard his mother pull him back and tell him to wait for the walk sign.

The next day the boy is waiting at the corner alone. I never lived close enough to my grade school to be able to walk, but I guess it’s something that still happens.  It almost feels like fall and if I try very hard I can pretend that I used to walk to school once, too.

The little boy and I stood there, waiting, when he cleared his throat like he had something important to say. I took out my headphones and looked over at him expectantly and he looked up at me and muttered, “I guess being an adult means you can cross the street when the hand is telling you not to.”

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