The word crossing reminds me of the times when I held my Dad’s hand to cross a busy highway. My little sister was holding his other hand. He would quickly take us across the busy highway, and then we would run on ahead. We had to have his hand if we crossed the street. It was crossing it that was so hard, and dangerous. We were young, and full of glee as we crossed to the other side. At times there were several who were crossing the street with us.
Getting lost is hard, and one day I lost my Dad’s hand. I ran ahead, and turned this way and that. Crossing the street wasn’t the problem. I couldn’t find my family. I began to cry, and I was loud. A young, little girl, upset like this draws attention. Finally someone took me by the hand. It was my Dad. He found me. I cried for a few more minutes. He didn’t scold me. He chided me to keep up with him, and he was relieved to find me.
I don’t hold anyone’s hand now when I cross a big street. If Ed, and I are together, we might hold hands. I am on the other end of the spectrum, because I am getting older. Crossing the streets of a big city are still exciting. The cars are always ready to go too, soon before we have finished crossing the street. They come towards us, but we go faster, and get on the curb just in time.