Rewind: Wonder Full

We could use some good news today, I think, so while this is an older story, it will serve our purposes....

It was a chilly winter’s morning, and the people awaiting the arrival of the 8:06 (henceforth to the known as The Crazy Train) watched their breath form lonely little clouds and wander away.  The crowd is usually a pretty familiar one.  Tourists come and go, and people trying to get to work early or late take someone else’s seat for the day, but by and large, we all know each other’s faces.  This particular morning, one of the regulars—a man who wears glasses and a perpetual polo shirt—had his son with him, a miniature version of himself (minus the polo shirt) in a big puffy red parka that made his arms stick out at his sides while his little glasses fogged up with cold.

As the train chuffed and grumbled its way up to the platform, Dad takes Junior’s hand and keeps him a safe distance from the door and the imminent stomping of the passengers disembarking from the train.  As they shuffled up to the door to board, Junior looked up at Dad over the rims of his foggy glasses and said, in this utterly calm, confident little voice, “Now, Dad.  Are you sure you have both our tickets ready?” 

“Yes,” Dad chuckled.  “Of course I have them.  I do this every day, you know.”

“I was just checking.”  Junior remarked with his casual authority, as he was scooped up and carried onto the train. 

I ended up sitting right near them, next to the guy who watches last night’s tv on his laptop.  They sat at the end of the car, facing me, up against the window.

Doug the Conductor came up the aisle a few moments later, taking tickets, doling out change and little pleasantries, making Dad and Junior his final exchange.

“’Morning,” he nodded.

“Good morning,” says Junior, who still manages to retain an incredible level of dignity while looking like a mini-marshmallow man.  “My dad has our tickets, but he has to get them out.”

           

“Well,” said Doug, with a very rare smile.  “I don’t mind waiting.”

Dad got out the ticket and I went back to my book, grinning at this kid’s amiable meticulousness.  A little while later, I heard Dad’s voice again.  “Look,” he said, setting Junior on his lap so he could see out the window.

The kid’s jaw dropped, and his eyes shimmered in shocked amazement.  The skyline of Boston came into view as we turned a corner, the Hancock Building a hazy gray of the snowy skies and the slushy Charles. 

“Dad,” Junior breathed not even blinking as he took it all in.  “It’s…it’s so big.” 

I want to put that wonder in a jar and take it out on days when the world feels stale and scary.  I want the uninhibited joy of staring out a new horizon, and not being afraid of its bigness and its beauty. I can’t look out the train window without thinking of that kid, and, no matter how many times I see the same view, I can’t help agreeing with him completely.