By Van Tieu
A child of about 7 or 8 meanders down Nostrand Avenue, weeping loudly. It’s a Saturday evening, and one of the coldest nights this winter season. The temperature reads 21 degrees Fahrenheit. Factor in the wind chill, and it feels like 5 degrees.
The child — you can’t tell if he’s a he or if she’s a she — is hidden under a large black winter coat that touches the ground. A dark hood shields the child’s face, but it doesn’t hide the sounds of despair.
In one gloveless black hand the child drags a tattered blue schoolbag along the sidewalk. The other hand furiously wipes away the tears and mucus that endlessly run down the child’s face. Tears and muck drip down the tiny fingers.
The gloomy creature, so sad, can’t even walk in a straight line. The wailing black coat inches slowly down the avenue, bumping into the iron gates of a church, bouncing up and down with every tearful convulsion. The child doesn’t even bother to look up to reset course, but rather, rolls against the gate. Cold, black iron bars become the guide for the blind, wailing coat of a child.
In the bustle to get home and out of the cold, strangers notice the wails and curiously search for its source. Their heads scan the windows of the apartments above. Nothing there. They turn to the idle cars. Nope, not there either. Continuing to follow the cries, their eyes land on the blubbery child passing along.
Everyone just takes a glance at the miserable child and continues on their way.
One man, apparently in a rush, splatters snowy slush with each quick pound of his heavy construction boots. He doesn’t stop, but he throws a couple of looks over his shoulder as he continues down Nostrand Avenue. Within seconds, he’s nearly at the end of the street.
Finally, a group of three is compelled to stop to ask the child what was wrong.
Through the muffled sobs the maybe-little boy or maybe-little girl sputters, “My mom won’t let me see my dad.”
What can you do? The strangers look at one another, unsure how to respond. The child continues down the avenue with the lumpy blue backpack in tow.
“Maybe there’s a good reason,” says one of the strangers. They shrug their shoulders and continue on to their destinations.
By this time, the rushed man isn’t so rushed anymore. He stops at the corner, and facing back to the direction from which he came, waits for the child.
The crying black coat grabs the flickering attention of another half-dozen people as it wobbles down the street. Finally, at the corner, the man who was so rushed just a moment ago, puts his hand on the child’s shoulder. “Hey, where do you live? Where’s your mom? Let me take you home.”
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