Walking past the Franklin Institute yesterday, I came up behind a young fashionably-dressed mother and her little daughter in their Sunday best. The mother, with long blonde hair, wore a smart red coat with the ease that pretty young women wear bright things. She was walking, bent in an attitude of conversation with the tiny girl who barely reached her mother's waist. The daughter had long, glossy brunette hair and was decked out in a child's version of the mother's attire.
I didn't hear what was being said. I could just read their body language. It was a sweet image. As I closed my distance and they approached the curb, suddenly the little girl clutched her mother's leg. "What if they send you to a unit and I can't come with you?"
They crossed the street and I walked on.
