What bugs me?

What bugs me are those parent drivers—going too fast, cell phones glued to their lips like half-smoked cigarettes, blowing cellular ash in their kids’ faces. Mute children stare out the window—no one to tell how their day was because whoever is on their mom’s phone is always more important. The kids sit impotent, unable to voice what’s almost bursting out of them, even if it’s just a warning: stop…STOP!…finally stopping for me and my child in the crosswalk. Screeching brakes, tiny waves, the false innocence of apologetic shrugs impeded by the phone cradled between ear and shoulder. How I want to reach in the window and grab that phone. But I know what I’d find. Too bad there’s no one on the other end, the driver’s equally self-absorbed caller having put them on hold for a better offer—yet another driver in line behind them just calling to say, “Why are we all stopping anyway?”