The Inward Ringtone

Tonight we are having a mini-blizzard. Not much accumulation, but a couple of hours of heavy, slippery snow that makes driving difficult. I have a piece of mail that really needs to go out tonight, and if I get it to the (nearby) post office before 8 P.M., it will. I go out, brush snow off the van, and start it so that it will be warm for Ethan. The other kids are with Firmin, so the booster seat in the back remains unoccupied. I bundle Ethan into his deluxe carseat and start out. It is about 6:00 but darkness has fallen. I miss the longer days of summer.

A couple of blocks out, I see a woman pushing a stroller. There is no sidewalk on our busy road, and concern for safety has forced her well off the shoulder, onto the increasingly snow-covered grass. A single blanket covers the child in the stroller from her upper thighs to the top of her head. Only her floral cotton leggings, thin socks and slip-on shoes show. I notice that the legs are longish. The girl must be about four years old. Three if she's tall. The woman holds a cell phone against her ear with one hand as she clumsily maneuvers the stroller along the bumpy ground with the other. I imagine she is calling someone to give her a ride. I hope she is successful; it's a terrible night to be out at all, let alone with a child. I drive on for another block. I wonder how far she has to go. I wonder whom she is calling to help her, and if they will come.

The realization is slow but certain: My warm van with space for the stroller, my non-urgent errand, and my extra booster seat make me the one who is being called to help.

I turn around.