How it goes.

At this moment, I am so glad I was raised with my mom. Not the woman swearing at her son across from me on the bus.


I hope no one ever sees me with my children and says, "I'm sure glad she wasn't my mother."

What's strange is this: there are no guarantees. The kid across from me could very well be the next great heart surgeon- or he could be the next 18 year old on death row (in 10 years).


There's an older man sitting by me on the bus. He is eating sliced bell pepper, hard aged cheese, pumpernickel bread, and dried meats. He is reading what looks to be a Czech or Russian newspaper.... or maybe Ukrainian. I am no sure. I like him. He has green grapes. I keep staring at them hoping he'll offer me one.

Despite Fleet Foxes "White Winter Hymnal" playing in my ears... I can still hear her yelling. "I aint got no extra money to give you no extra room."

Sigh.

It's a weird thing-- feeling afraid to offer a kind word- or a twenty dollar bill. I sit typing on my laptop-- hearing the yelling- knowing that maybe, given the right opportunity she would be a better mom- or at least have a better vocabulary to express her frustrations. But also, knowing, that I look like a frivolous brat who's never shoveled rotten soybeans-- or cut grass. My offer of help would be hated.




Latvian. He's from Latvia.