Guest Conductor ....

The Sunday morning lines at airport security weren’t too bad, I remember thinking.?

Even though I make the rookie mistake of choosing the line with the young family. Mom with a backpack on her back, baby strapped to her front. Dad, backpacks both front and back, diaper bag slung on his shoulder, pushing a young son in a stroller. Too early for coffee, I'm on autopilot. Check the time on my phone. I should still be OK to make my gate.

As they all recombobulate after security, Dad turns to the son and hands him back a toy. Obviously not their first rodeo.

Make my way to the tram that takes you to the terminal. I walk all the way to the front car so I can be among the first ones off and hit the escalators, rather than swim with the masses. Despite being weighed down with so much cargo, the family is a couple steps ahead.

Professionals, I note.

When the tram arrives and the doors open, the son (maybe 3?) bolts from the stroller and beelines to the bench at the front of the car. Hops up, legs and all, in front of the big window that stares down the length of the track.

Glues his eyes as if in a spaceship looking back at earth.?

Even my uncaffeinated system can't resist a smile.

Couple seconds after the door closes … “Are we moving?” he asks rhetorically, as his body registers the rumble.

And then ...

“Choo-choo …. choo-choo.”?

Slowly at first as the tram picks up speed.?

His voice isn’t “Too Early on a Sunday Morning” loud. And he’s not in “Hey Look At Me, Not the Baby,” mode.?

He’s conducting.

Chanting in his soft, room temperature voice, putting the perfect pause between the double-Choos.??

Mom, carrying the weight of their world, smiles and sits on the bench next to him. Not just any smile, mind you. It's the smile of a mother watching her baby watch the world. Dad, hands-free from the stroller, takes out his phone to grab a video of what I can only assume is his son's first 'train' ride.

The whole scene unfolds in front of me like a flower from parched Sunday-morning earth.?

Two addled and saddled parents wanting to slow this train down and just live in this moment.?

And for a few luminous seconds, we all forget.

The weights on our backs.?

Where we might be going next.?

In my enchantment I notice that the boy is resting his hand atop his toy, the one his Dad returned to him after security. I only now make out what it is.?

A shiny red train engine.

Of course it is. ?

He’s not squeezing it … not holding it tight at all.?Just gently touching the top.

“Choo-choo.”

He's the professional of the group.

Conducting in every sense of the word, his entire being channeling pure, unadulterated imagining energy from his toy, through the vibrations of this magic vessel.

A conduit of Wonder.

A minute ago I was thinking about the closest bathroom to my gate. Now, I’m beating back a lump in my throat and welling eyes.

'Til the train begins slowing, easing us to a stop. And the spell is broken by the boo hiss of the doors opening way too soon for whatever comes next.?

Mom grabs the pole to help her to her feet.?

Dad puts his phone away.?

The boy climbs back in the stroller.

I wipe an eye with the back of my hand.?

My autopilot kicks back in. I leave the family in my wake, quick walk so I can be first on the escalator. After which I pick up my ritual snacks and brace for a day of connecting flights and a long week far from home.?

Our routines, and the world at large, wage a war of attrition against our noticing.?

Against our capacity to encounter things we've seen before and see them with, or sometimes through, fresh eyes.

Against our realizing that there is no such thing as an in-between moment.

Against our remembering that there is a profound difference between being child-ish and being child-like.

A boy in front of a big window, one hand gently resting on his favorite toy.?

A Mom and Dad, backpacks, baby and all, on the most glorious ride of their lives.

An uncaffeinated, soggy eyed traveler reaching out for something to steady his Sunday morning.?

"Are we moving?" he asked.

We are moved. ?