Up until this point I had been very proud of the boy for never giving me any real reason not to trust him; however, I was clamoring for a good reason to say no to the solo trek. Coming up empty the best I could do was lecture him for a good five minutes on strangers, cars, dogs, not walking in other peoples yards and making it back home in 20 minutes. Tops. We synchronized our watches and off he went.

I remember standing on the top step leading up to our little porch and watching him as he neared the first corner that would put him out of sight. I began bouncing on the balls of my feet and imagine there must have been a cloud of dust in my wake as I launched from the porch once he rounded that corner. If I could just make it to that elm tree quick enough I would catch him before he moved around the next corner that put him on the street to the store.

When I was eight years old I lived on a military base in North Carolina with my mother, little brother, older sister (who was in the military) and her soon to be husband. I had been allowed to walk to and from the commissary by myself at this time and normally it was without incident, or as without incident as the roaming mind of an eight year old can allow. One particular day I stood at an intersection waiting for the crosswalk to prompt me forward when a car pulled to a stop in front of me. I stopped looking at the crosswalk long enough to peer into the car and saw a woman driving and a young boy (about my age) in the passenger seat. For the car to have stopped I knew the crosswalk was going to change and I’d be able to cross the street.

Before I could take my eyes from the car and look to the sign I saw her hit him. Her right hand came flying across and crashed into the side of his face. The boy didn’t cry. He lowered his face a bit toward the window and didn’t move. With a ferocity I’d never seen she grabbed a hand full of hair and forced him to look at her. This is when she started screaming.

By the time I was eight I had heard my share of obscenities. What was foreign to me was how those obscenities changed when fueled by rage. Rage fueled obscenities. Yes, that is what I heard pouring through that car window that day.

I stood there stock still. Deer in the headlights if you will. Maybe a minute had passed at this point though it felt much longer. She finished her tirade and forcefully pushed the boys head away from her with enough force for his cheek to crash against the window that was not quite all the way rolled down. It was when she pushed him away that she looked through his window and saw me standing there.

Her face was screwed into some expression that would have been more at home on a rabid animal. She leaned across the boys seat and stuck one index finger out his window. Pointing at me she said, “you’re next”.

It seems at this same instance her light turned green and without another glance she straightened herself, accelerated and moved down the road. I never saw her or the boy again.

The rest of my walk home I cried what I thought was a man’s cry. There were very few tears but my ribs shook from the internal sobbing.

This scene from my past replayed itself as I moved out from behind the elm and sought cover on the opposite corner. I watched as my son turned into the parking lot and made his way into the store. I only waited a few minutes before he came back onto the street with an orange pop in one hand and some candy in the other. I had planned my return route which took me onto the street behind our house and allowed me to keep an eye on the boy between houses. I ended up hopping the fence into our backyard and greeting him in our driveway.

It’s our job to protect our children. I wonder if I would have followed my son that day had I not witnessed what I did when I was eight. I think I would have, though the urgency and motivation would have been a bit different I imagine. It’s interesting, those things that shape you.