A little boy in a big cowboy hat

I was on my way home from Mass on a recent Sunday morning when something caught my eye.

It was a little boy in a big brown cowboy hat nearly as large as he was. He was wearing it proudly, along with shiny cowboy boots, and he was pulling something up a small set of stairs leading to a front porch.

It was a wheelchair.

An old one at that - the kind on which the wheels fold toward the center when you lift on the back of the chair. He had reached the step next to the top by the time I spotted him. His face was a picture of determination.

I wished I had a camera to catch the moment in the late-morning sunlight.

I thought about stopping to help him with his task, because he couldn't have been more than 5 years old. But as I thought about how it might appear to have a grown man stop his car and approach a young boy he doesn't know, I decided against it. An innocent gesture might be perceived as something far more sinister.

He was just one step from the porch, I rationalized. I wondered who the wheelchair was for. There are no ramps leading up to that old poch in the old shotgun house on West Douglas.

Perhaps he was there visiting his grandparents (or great-grandparents). Perhaps this was his way of lending a hand to someone he loved. Perhaps it was a "toy" he was going to take a ride in on the porch.

I knew the answers to none of those possibilities.

I just know I'd caught a glimpse of a remarkable scene - one that sticks with me to this day. I do wish I'd had a camera with me, though.

The little boy on the train

I heard the train whistle as I was walking at Towne West mall late Sunday afternoon, so I moved to the right to let the little choo-choo pass.

The train is usually crammed with kids. But this one was empty - clear to the last car.

A young father sat snugly, his arm curled protectively around a son who couldn't have been more than three years old. The boy was standing so he could have a better view.

He was completely bald. I wondered why a child that age would have no hair on his head, and then our eyes met - and I knew.

His luminous, coal-black eyes had a sadness to them, a wisdom, that comes from deep suffering - both his own and what he has witnessed. I've seen that look numerous times in children who were battling cancer or other grave illnesses.

Such battles make children grow up in a hurry. But this lad still had enough little boy left in him to grin when I smiled at him.

As the end of the train moved past me, he raised his arms above his head so he could feel the air rushing ever so gently past him.

When the train passed the front of a clothing store, he turned and waved at a handful of mannequins in the window, as if it was a crowd standing next to the tracks.

That's when I saw the scar.

It had the shape of a half-moon, perhaps three inches from point to point, and had healed well. I found myself wondering if surgeons had removed a brain tumor, and said a quick prayer for his recovery.

Part of me wanted to run ahead, catch the train and introduce myself. But just then a woman came over the loudspeakers and announced that the mall was closing. I realized I'd never make it to the debarkation point in time, and without my reporter's ID the father would probably question my sanity and motives.

And so I'll be left with memories of that fleeting moment in the mall, and how things we commonly take for granted can mean so much to a little boy.

Four Things Boys Learn From Their Fathers

This blogpost about the role of fathers is a potent reminder of just how key a role they play in the lives of their children.