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He must’ve been pretty young then because his mother was pushing his brother in a stroller. It was cold, bitter cold for springtime. Colder than it ever got where they lived. He remembers the way wind chapped their cheeks and made it seem like they were always in a hurry. His father would have been in a meeting, so it was just he and his mother and his little brother in the stroller. It was a sunny day, despite the cold and wind. The grass in the park across the street looked crayon green, and behind that, he could see the pink blossoms of cherry trees and the white slab of the Washington Monument. In a metal box on a pole, a little man lit up white. His mother said it was time for them to cross. He must’ve used a crosswalk before but this is the first one he remembers. He went first, then slowed down so he could be next to his brother. His mother’s grip tightened on his hand. Wait, there was a noise, a rattle, the tsk of something landing on the asphalt. He turned around and there was his brother’s rattle, light blue, round with a white handle, looking out of place on the gray road. Still they were walking forward. “Mama wait,” he said, struggling to find the word “rattle,” but all he could do was point. His mother saw the rattle now, but she only glanced at it before she grabbed his arm and pulled him. “Come on!” she said. The little white man was gone, replaced by an orange hand, flashing dangerously. He loved the rattle, it seemed like a part of his baby brother. There was a picture of a bear on it, a smiling bear with pointy ears. It looked afraid there on the road by itself, and his mother was still pulling: “Leave the rattle, Warren!” The cars’ engines droned. They were on the curb now, safe. His baby brother stared up at the sky, innocent, unknowing. He and his mother watched the first car roll past the rattle and he thought, Maybe they will miss it, maybe we can get them to stop before anybody rolls over it. He couldn’t see anything as car after car rushed by. When there was a break in traffic he looked in the spot where the rattle had fallen, but all he saw were a few slivers of blue and white. His arm hurt where his mother grabbed it and he began to cry. He remembers his mother’s grip, the way her fingers dug into the fat above his elbow. And the feeling he should’ve done something. He still feels like crying every time he thinks of the rattle.

© 2008 Al Dixon