Little Buddha

It is the tail end of summer.  The City is throwing off summer's languor for a workaday world made bearable by the promise of autumn skies.  A few days ago, I left a perfect cerulean sky and descended into the subway's half light.  The train arrived and I walked into a car, quiet and serene.  It was as if everyone were resting after summer's temper tantrum (here in NYC we have just concluded the hottest summer on record).  I closed my eyes and rested.  After a few stops I opened them to an infant staring straight at me with calm, steady eyes.  He was chubby and sat quietly in his stroller like a little buddha under the tree of knowledge.  He surveyed the car with eyes that held no surprise.  His gaze said, good grief, not another go 'round.  It seemed to me that the soul shepherded in that little body was older than many others riding on that train.  Then he returned his line of vision to me and would not allow me to disconnect.   Some eyes reveal instant connection, a kindred spirit.  Others shield themselves behind a veil of misunderstanding that no amount of explaining can bridge.  This little buddha's showed continuity between past and future, a story already written and one waiting to be composed.