Vanishing act

I was on my way to the elevated train last night after work, listening to smoky KT Tunstall on my iPod, feeling generally exhausted and genuinely glad to be heading home. As I was about to cross Chicago Avenue, I see, coming down Chicago on the opposite side of the street, a woman who looked super familiar to me. She was sort of willowy, had long, light brown hair, and looked... just... like someone I knew at some point, some time, somewhere. She was wearing a vivid red top and dark jeans.

I crossed the street, unable to put my finger on who she was, but I am hopeful that, by the time our paths intersect, I will figure it out. I trot across Chicago, just as this woman crosses the street perpendicular to it and walks behind a long-abandoned newsstand. We're destined to bump into each other on the other side of this little shack on the corner. I still had not placed her. All I was sure of was that I'd seen her before.

Look, this is a true story. Everything down to what she was wearing is exactly as it was last evening. Even my obvious look of surprise upon her not emerging on the other side of that newsstand is 100% real. My quick turnaround and walk around the back of the stand to see if she changed direction actually happened. The fact that she was nowhere to be seen is undeniable and unexaggerated. Not a red shirt for blocks. She was gone.

I decided not to dwell on the mystery and climbed the lengthy flight of aged stairs to the train platform. As usual, I had to run to catch a train that was just pulling in as I reached the top, out of breath as I disappeared through its metal doors. I rode home listening to my music and watching the same familiar backsides of apartments and houses slide by.

My daughter shrieked, "Daddy!" as she raced into my arms on the sidewalk by our house. Hugging her each evening always helps bring me back to earth after a long day and usually surreal train ride home. I see my wife, beautiful but with tired eyes, holding our jolly infant son. I kiss them both, but linger on my wife for a moment. It's a silent reminder, I hope, that she and I, in our parental roles, have not disappeared entirely.

As we begin the slow amble back home, my daughter shows me how good she's gotten at balancing on the little slabs of wood that separate the trees from the sidewalk. She can even jump off of them all by herself. She crouches low and thrusts her little body straight up. She lands happily on the sidewalk three inches below.

She does this without any help. She wants to do it all by herself. That's what being three is all about - finding your identity as you finish emerging from baby-hood. Once in a while, though, she'll attempt a slightly higher wall. And, in those cases, without even glancing up, she will reach out for my hand, knowing full well that I am very much right there to take it.

Right there.