I listen for my cues. I play my role. And the world rolls by.
I hear the sound. In the back, the elder child is removing one shoe. She has figured out, this impish force of will, that if she is barefoot and stretching she can reach the button for the power window.
She controls her window; she controls her destiny.
The tinted glass disappears and the panorama comes alive with noise and wind and smells.
I hear the echo, pushed around the circumference of the car and to my ears in the front by the hot gusts of wind visiting our skin and hair. In the back, the younger child is removing one shoe. She has decided, this determined-to-compare competitor, that if her sister can do something, she can do it, too.
But her toes can’t reach the button.
And so. And so I time my movements. I glimpse back and see her still-pudgy little footsicle on the console of the door. And from my own door panel I push the button that lowers her window.
The tinted glass disappears. Veteran winds from the right crash with new winds from the left. Our hair blows in circles and city sounds convulse in stereo and behind the kinetic cacophony, a small sound: a little girl claps her hands. Yay.
And vividly, the world rolls by.