On my way out of Earth Fare today, I saw a relatively young father sitting at a bus stop with his son of probably about four or five years old.
They were sitting on the bench, waiting on the bus and reading through a picture book together. The child, his legs dangling characteristically from the edge of the bench, would frequently turn to his father with inquisitive eyes and purposefully jab his finger into the heavy card stock pages, physically denoting the word that he needed help sounding out. His father would simply smile in response and, reaching down to point in tandem with the boy at their phonetical adversary, form the syllables slowly with his breath as his son imitated the sounds with an eagerness that only the impartment of previously inaccessible knowledge can imbue in an individual.
As I sat in my freshly acquired seat in my car, my recently purchased quinoa and stuffed grape leaves left forgotten in my hands, I could do little but watch the event in front of me unfold, imagining in my mind the bus pulling up and the father helping his small companion up the precarious metal steps to return home and prepare dinner "together." After a time, I suddenly became aware that I was staring and that my door was still open, with one protruding foot still resting on the ground next to the vehicle. I quickly deposited my meager groceries into the passenger seat and went through the motions of starting the machine beneath me.
Pulling out of the parking lot, I stole one swift glance back at the endearing scene behind me. As I drove away in the waning light of the rapidly approaching dusk, I wanted little else in this world more than for this affectionate pair to make it home safely and in time to finish their story before the notion of sleep settled in around them.