Tether

Next to me at the intersection stands a young boy, hands in jacket pockets, hair the brown of the
brittle leaves in the street gutter. Autumn. The anniversary of my younger sister’s accidental
death, by drowning—a riptide, no flotation device. I was nearby. The boy at the intersection and
I wait for the stoplight, and for a moment he glances up at me, but I’m beyond his concern. He
bobs on the balls of his feet, eyes closed. Then, presumably struck by a good memory, he grins,
oblivious of the dull power of the cars hurtling past, feet from our knees. His possible death isn’t
lost on me. Imagination saves lives by provoking fear, and the innocence of youth is a danger all
face, even bystanders. I feel the urge to grab his hand, for his safety. But I turn and see, from his
backpack, a leash held by his mother—they share a nose and buoyant curls, perhaps far more. I
smile, but she notices me pause over the tether and turns towards the street, shoulders squared,
gripping the braided rope that protects both the boy and her. Chin defiant, she braces, perhaps for the careless words of yet another critic who can’t grasp how quickly not just a body, but a mind can dash into traffic. I understand, but to speak, it would be to admit to a love that could no
longer trust another or oneself.