Posts Tagged ‘little girls’

‎She wore a bright pink rain jacket, the sleeves turned up at the cuffs and the hood bouncing against her back as she ran.

It was the colour that caught my attention as I sat in my car, about 15 cars back from the stop sign, waiting. I fiddled with the buttons on my stereo, trying to find a song other than Katy Perry’s “Dark Horse.” Not that I have anything against Katy Perry, per se, but is it just me or does it seem like that particular song is on the radio all the time?

As I fiddled with the buttons, out of the corner of my eye I saw the pink. Bright pink. I turned my head and saw her running down the sidewalk, the smile on her face so big and wide that I couldn’t help but feel myself grin just watching her.

I guessed that she would be about a year and a half, determined b‎y nothing else other than the fact that she was running at a pretty decent pace but still had that “I could fall over at any moment” look about her. I had forgotten that I remembered that look.

The mother in me pulled my eyes away from her long enough to confirm that someone was there with her, and I saw what I assumed was her mother trotting along behind her. She wore a thin cardigan that she tried to pull tighter as she walked, an obvious attempt to keep herself warm in the cool winds of early spring.

Of course she made sure that her daughter was bundled up tight in a rain jacket and boots but she didn’t even remember to grab a jacket for herself. How automatically we mothers tend to put ourselves second. I wanted to get out of my car and give her my jacket, believing desperately that mothers also need someone to mother us sometimes.

It became obvious to me that the little girl was not running away from her mother but was rather running towards someone. I turned my head to see if I could catch a glimpse of who ‎she was running to, but my sight line was obscured. I imagined it was her dad, just off the train, walking quickly home to her, desperate to see her smiling face and little legs pumping as fast as they could carry her.

I imagined that’s why her mom was smiling too, because dad coming home meant she had made it through another day. How intensely I can remember that feeling from my own time at home when my kids were little. The feeling of crossing the finish line (finally) and having some help (finally) and maybe, just maybe, a warm bath and ten minutes of peace and quiet (finally) would be in my future.

It may not have been her dad. It may have been someone completely different, or even something completely different and not a person at all. But I’m choosing to believe it was her dad and that when they finally got close enough to each other, that he dropped the bag he was carrying ‎and lifted her up into the sky, spinning her around a few times before hugging her tightly to his chest.

I’m choosing to believe it because sometimes it’s nice to imagine the happy endings for a change, instead of always seeing the unhappy realities.

Every now and then it’s nice to see past the dreary grey of the world and let in a little bit of bright pink.

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