The Gate

The kid in the yellow jacket couldn't figure out

which way to swipe.

I was behind him with my card already ready.

His mother was on the other side,

waving through the bars like he wasn't right there,

like the gate between them was a real distance.

I watched his small hand

try left, try right,

the turnstile not moving.

The fluorescent light bounced off the chrome bar

and caught his face—that moment

when you know you're doing it wrong

but you don't know how to do it right.

I could have shown him.

I had my card in my hand.

I was one swipe away from being the kind of person

who helps strangers.

Instead I waited.

I let his mother's waves get bigger,

more frantic.

I let the next person in line sigh.

He finally got it.

Pushed through.

His mother grabbed him on the other side

like he'd been lost at sea.

I swiped my card.

Walked through like I'd done nothing wrong,

which is exactly what I'd done—

nothing.