The crosswalk

Today the grey skies cover the city like a soft silk scarf. The familiar sound of the morning school drop-off rings in my ears as I stand at the busy crosswalk. Hastings School is like a beehive: a densely packed matrix of organized spaces, needing to keep order, people coming and going. The buzzing of life happens here. To my right is a young dad; his baggy jeans sag below his boxers, his rapper-style bomber jacket and the thick gold chain around his neck personifying a gangster. He holds his daughter’s little hand in his, waiting to cross the street. In front of us, a woman from the community smiles as she steps off the curb. She is like a ray of sunshine in the bright yellow pineapple-print dress she has squeezed herself into. Her full round figure is amplified as the fabric of the dress hugs her every curve. She bounces across the street, her attitude complementing her cheerful outfit. The man walking behind her, wearing a dark navy business suit, has just kissed his son goodbye. His face is creased with deep lines of concern. He is in a rush. He looks ahead, his worried stare contrasting with the gleeful woman next to him. I step onto the crosswalk towards the entrance of the school, as I do every weekday morning, but today I cannot help but take particular notice of all the distinct faces around me.