Of Least Resistance

• Donald Bown, Grade 12
• Short Story
• 2021

My mother said a smile and a wave can count where nothing else would. I have never wanted to refute it, but still…

I have not recalled something worthy of note for some time. Like a toddler grabbing at toys, my mind simply drags the most convenient object into the limelight for some moments at a time. Even memories already distinct are barely worthy of the prosaic.

The day was muggy. The humble noon-lit suburbia sidewalk between my house and the store was stained with the wet of rain, as it had been for many days and nights beforehand. There was enough pause between the downpour for one to run errands unfettered; few, it seemed, were willing to chance it. Lockstep with thick puddles, I cut past the unadorned bus stop. I’ve passed plenty of bus stops, and plenty of passers-by – a smile and a wave counted where nothing else would. A smile and a wave it was, barely giving more thought or a glance to the child sitting alone on the bench.

I did not think twice of it. I did not think twice of the girl, sniffling in the cold, wholly secluded. Only when I fussed over my groceries, letting my undisciplined mind wander freely for some time, did the peculiarity strike me. But the moment was over, and the emotion passed. A smile and a wave counted for something, after all.

The harbingers of night were rife in the fading light by the second time I passed by the bus stop – crows, bats, mayflies, the lot. A lone streetlamp, a lone sign, and a lone bench with barely a roof above. And, still, the lone child. Her persistence relieved me only briefly, disturbing me soon after. My mother said to follow my gut, but my guts swirled in my midriff like paste.

“Do you need help?” I started. If she had anything to say, she held it between her lips, staring down at her feet. I could not afford to frighten her. She was half my height, and certainly half my age. “Where are your parents?”
“Please leave.”

I fumbled over her abrupt response, then, as if the streetlamp shone on her anew, I looked at her. She was ridden with welts where her stained clothes did not cover her skin. Her eyes were wide, but also swollen, sullen. Her lip was not curled from exasperation. It was… wrong. It was all off. I did not know what to do. So, I followed my gut.

I passed her by.

It rained again that night. I watched the water run down the cobbles of the pavement, carelessly flowing between the slopes and divots that they always had. I tried to remember each bus stop I’ve passed. The many passers-by I have seen and forgotten.

She was gone by the time they arrived. I’ve always known that a smile and a wave can count where nothing else would, just as my mother knew. And yet, still…