The space between samurai

In which our Hero bows and takes his hand from his steel

The boy darted forward in a dancing sprint, around his mother and the sibling-laden carriage she pushed, and ahead to the door that she was just stopping at. He was so small, maybe 5, but he ducked to the other side of the door as it closed behind someone, and dug in his heels and backed that door open with steady determination.

His mother was dubious, but I moved into position and reached for the door, and she smiled at me and took that as a cue to go through. Which I would have done, but even as I was standing there to help them both through, I paused, once, and stayed my hand outstretched. The boy had the door, for his mother, for his family. I didn’t have to relieve him, only back him up, and I did.

A moment later, his mother was through and it was just he and I. “I’ve got it,” I told him, “Don’t worry.” He looked up at me, not just holding the door, but holding it back with the whole of his body. With the vast solemnity that comes upon a child in the presence of a stranger, he said, “That’s okay, you can go first.”

I paused a second time, because the door was heavy and I didn’t want him hurt, and because I’m the boss of 94.3% of all the children I meet and I don’t indulge where safety is at issue. But this was a moment, man-to-man, as sacred as the end of any action movie where someone stays behind to save the rest of the group.

I went through the door.