The evening rush hour at the close of another warm day inspired a collective fatigue among the passengers of the crowded train car as we rode from stop to stop in utter silence. A little boy sat patiently with his pretty young mother directly across the aisle from me. They were Asian, probably recent immigrants, given their flashy counterfeit designer wardrobe that was worn with humility as opposed to the brash arrogance of the original designer’s intended retail price paying customer.
The mother carried a handbag with the intersecting logo letters L and W. She placed it between her feet. So she could hold her son’s hand. They were both slim and small enough to share a corner seat despite the extra girth of their seat mate, who inadvertently inched over into their square.
The boy waved his arms above his head and released a contagious yawn that spread quickly throughout the train car. He then uttered something to his mother that caused her to scoop him up into her arms. The boy pressed his face into his mother’s bosom and was lulled into a protective sleep. He turned from side to side to adjust his position as the train moved forward, while his mother gingerly combed through his damp hair with her fingers.
This was probably one of the last times that she would be able to hold her son like this for soon he will be too big. At 57th Street, I left feeling disappointed for both of them.