Icarus of Market Street

    I saw them from the southwest corner of Fifth and Market. They were sitting on a bench near the bus stop half way down the block on the other side of Market's four lanes, by the cable car turnaround. A man and two boys, sharing two ice cream bars between them, sharing a bench and yet not inhabiting the same space.

    The 5-year-old was standing on one end, talking or singing between bites; his 18-month-old brother sat between him and his dad. The elder was clearly enjoying a moment to himself, able to eat his own treat, not forced to share or let anyone hold it for him. He was free to smear chocolate on his face, pick his nose, wipe his hands on his pants.

    The father jabbered — to them, to himself, perhaps to the wind — and offered the baby periodic licks while catching the big drips as best he could. Distracted by a wailing siren, the big brother came dangerously close to planting his gluey stick in the puff of white hair atop a stooped lady's head. She was grinning at something herself, as oblivious to him as his father.

    Still across the street, I approached the crosswalk at mid-block and was close enough to hear, when traffic stopped, the sing-song talk, the tinkling laugh, the gurgling murmur studded with a few random real words, and the baritone that sounded like it had no setting for shrill. Or maybe I'm filling that in.

    The little one coughed and I started. The dad twisted around to him, lowered his face to the child and spoke. A bus stopped, blocked my view. It sat in the crosswalk through the light, and I waited for it to pass before stepping into the street.

    When the bus pulled away it revealed a slightly changed scene. The father was looking at his watch, then he looked left, then right; the bigger boy was talking to the lady he'd nearly christened; and the little one, in some baby reverie, was leaning his head and arms out over his knees, tempting gravity to pull him to the grimy bricks under his dangling feet. I had just missed the light, and called out over the traffic streaming between us, but was scarcely heard by the throng around me, for a blues guitarist spanked out a duh DUHN duh nah just then.

    When the crosswalk cleared the boy was on the ground and my heart punched my ribs and I opened my mouth to holler, but then my husband snatched him up, they both were laughing, the other one still chatting, and a dog was heading for the abandoned ice cream. I waited through one more light, waited to cross until I was sure they would recognize me.