The thought of nails and knives scraping against the handrails haunted me the whole ride, from Colorado to Broadway. I started looking at two kids in the front of the bus, turned around in their stroller to face me. They were twins, I think, about three or four. One was giggling and waving to me, the other was just staring. A young soul and an old one. The old one just stared me in the eye, in the way that most adults won’t. She knew, I realized, she knew better than me, just what life was going to be. Her sister and me were objects of tender pity. This quixotic tilt of life was something she’d been through again and again, but I wouldn’t even know what I was doing until that inexorable windmill knocked me on my ass. The bus stopped and I got up. The silent little girl raised her hand slowly and waved, goodbye, just slightly curling her little brown fingers. I smiled. I figured that whatever else we are, we aren’t alone.
