The Morning a Leash Is Handed Over
Six thirty, that person was standing at the bus stop. Morning light touched the tips of worn shoes, and in one hand was a water bottle beaded with moisture. Shoulders hunched slightly against the cold, in the posture of waiting for the signal to change. Someone who had walked up alongside handed over the leash. The two hands overlapped for a moment, and in between, the dog pressed itself against their legs. Without a word, they fell into step in the same direction. The leash was now in someone else's hand. The height of those shoulders that never turned back stayed in my memory all morning.
It was a morning when an abandoned dog in front of a cafe on my way to work was biting at the shadow of my feet. It had no leash, but the shadow stretched long across the ground looked like the posture of someone waiting. Only the temperature of that hour overlaps in my mind.
Picturing that dog's shadow stretched long across the ground, I remember a morning when the warmth of a handed-over leash lingered a long while.
The moment the leash changed hands, something similar happened in an alley I was passing. The backs of two people, never facing each other, matching their steps while looking only at the dog, stayed with me a long time. A morning's quiet trust begins like that, it seems.
Those backs were as clear as morning air, so I paused at the end of the alley and listened only to the rhythm of the dog's walking. The sound of two people's steps blending into one tempo passed quietly through me.