Walking the City

A child’s answer to fear

Photo by Michael Glazier on Unsplash.

Across the harbor I see a sleek ship cut the water, taking shape like an oil-covered porpoise in the fall of dusk, suspending and gliding. Four small black birds move across the darkening sky. I witness charcoal streaks over mahogany, fossilized ash mined from imagination’s corridors.

I grab her hand and take her down the steps to the bridge with the lamps and butterflies frozen in amber. Tell her we can come back later when time is more nimble and patient. For now we keep on through brass-colored light.

I catch a handful of coat piled on her shoulder and pull her close.
“You see that?”
She nods.
I point again. “Down the road at the light’s edge where it starts to get dark?”
She nods.
“Daddy. I’m scared.”
“Yes,” I say, looking up at the swooping clouds. “I know.”

We go down the mostly empty street, past a beggar passed out and reeking of alcohol beside a Chinese cafe. Stained fingers jitter on the pavement. An ant crawls over his palsy hand. She stares. I tug her coat, make brief eyes with a sour woman in the cafe. She gives back an empty stare: assent about urban conditions.