Directly across from me sits this ENORMOUS burly dude—ebon beard halfway down his chest; tattoos covering meaty forearms, climbing his tree neck; pomaded and parted so severely, he wears his hair like a helmet. To his left, I assume, his wife: beautiful, exotic; dark hair, eyes, and skin. She looks as though she smells of tangerines and confectioner’s spices. Their stunning baby girl is in the stroller between them, all eyelashes and ringlets, rosy cheeks and barren gums.
Two stops after I board the train, angel starts to shriek. Parental chatter halts abruptly when daughter opens mouth, releasing a piercing wail paused only by gaping, gasping breaths in preparation for another banshee’s lament.
Mom starts the anxious search through diaper bag for blanket, pacifier, morsel—ANYTHING to relieve dear one’s misery. But Dad has parked the stroller, and while Mom is pilfering, he starts to stroke that precious cheek; that fat little roll flattens and puffs under his colossal finger as it rides up and down the side of her cherubic countenance.
“Is she hungry?” “Maybe her diaper needs changing.” “Oh, I’ll bet she’s teething.” Dad hears it all, grins silently; continuing his task with constant, methodical, unwavering caress against that perfect face adorned with his nose…in miniature.
In noteless lullaby, the globules of tears slow, the bottom lip curls and releases under the final sobs, and the tiniest sigh escapes the littlest siren. Blackbeard has soothed the inconsolable as only he can.
In this beautiful exchange, I see metaphors for life, friends. Sometimes even the wisest among us can’t offer better advice than following our own instincts, so trust your gut. Try not to judge a book by its cover—sometimes the tenderest tomes have the toughest binding. And NEVER underestimate the power of a loving touch. It can communicate affection more clearly than a million honey-dipped words dripping from poet’s pen.
Love y’all.