We see some great stuff travelling around, most particularly is the ritual of spotting a certain young boy every morning on the short hop to school. We have seen this little guy grow at least six inches since we first noticed him and I think he has cycled through at least three bookbags over the last years. Here's the drill: After avoiding the camera light on Dixie Belle, which is relentless in its pursuit of speeding me, my daughter and I snap our heads to the right and every morning, unfailingly we are treated to our profound delight by the same scene with only slight variations from day to day.
Standing on the sidewalk in front of a collection of condominiums, is Booby Boy waiting for the bus. He is accompanied by a proud and buxom smiling lady in hospital scrubs who we can only assume is his beloved, and I mean beloved, Mommy. They wait together for the bus wrapped in their own personal bubble, talking, laughing, gazing into each other's eyes with Booby Boy's bespectacled blissful face in full contact, fully engaged, in his Mom's cleavage!
We analyze the scene every day, musing on how much he's grown, how her scrubs went from pea green to a cheerful print and maybe she has a new job, how disturbing yet delightful that this boy is so joyful every day during these stolen moments from an obviously very busy day, that we can salute a kid who is developing such a profound respect for breasts, that we feel so guilty for anonymously hijacking their small slice together, how hard is the single Mother's life.
At night, we wing by there on the way back from soccer practice and the sidewalk near Dixie Belle seems mournfully vacant. My daughter and I routinely and simultaneously fall silent and glance over trying to glimpse just the smallest hint of Booby Boy and his Mom. Unrequited we sigh, look at each other and intone in unison, sometimes in harmony-
"Goodnight, Booby Boy, wherever you are!"
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