on pity and fear.

Pity.  It is clearly etched into those grey-blue eyes along with a hint of something else. Fear, perhaps.  I won't ever know.  Traveling down from her eyes I find a small, pointed nose, slightly too-thin lips, a canopy of blonde curls, a dainty string of pearls peeking out from under a pale, woven scarf, purple button-down coat and tiny, white mittens gripping the metal bar to a stroller. The baby inside did not fear me.  There was no pity in it's eyes, no apprehension in its stare.  It did not grow uncomfortable with my lingering gaze, as its mother had.  It was the first time in a long time I hadn't been looked at like a walking, living piece of the streets.  The first time in a long time I had been looked at like a human.  A somewhat wild movement from above the child's head caused me to look up at the woman again.  The green paper rectangle waved at me from within her little mittens, begging me to take it and get lost.  By now, I know better than to think it was a gift of kindness, but rather a plea for me to not taint her New York stroll any more than I already had.  I do not want to think that only small children can truly be compassionate.  I do not want to think that incentive and personal-gain is all that motivates adults toward charitable acts.  But the streets of New York are discouraging.  Compassion is rarely found in the striking green against a white mitten. That is not what I am looking for, but who am I to reject this gift, regardless of her intentions?  Taking one last look at the small child who is still unscathed by society, I extend my hand and slide the green bill out of the white mittens and turn away silently.