radiant, trusting I was at Yerba Buena Gardens the other day, on the steps by the fountain, where seagulls go to wash themselves and drink, when a girl of three or four was instantly at my shoulder, radiant. "What are you doing? Are you watching the water?" The wind rippling the water, even spraying up water sometimes, and the play of light on it were well worth watching, but I had been writing. It was her smile, and her complete trust: her approach to the world were infectious. "I'm writing," I said, and showed her what I had written. "Oh," she said happily, though I'm not sure she understood that I had put those words there, or even what writing is, that words have meanings like spoken sounds. I wanted to explain that words represent speech. I wanted to write, "What are you doing?" and explain the connection. She seemed intelligent enough for that, and she would be learning it soon anyway. Now her brother was at her side, even younger, about two, and equally precocious, radiant and trusting. He was almost pre-speech, but he said "Hi" and pointed to something. I pointed somewhere else, then back to where he'd been pointing, and he smiled. I knew that kids like these, not hardened to strangers, would have their mother nearby, and I didn't want to seem suspiciously friendly when she showed up. Yet I could hardly be cold to them, they wouldn't understand. In any case here she was, coming slowly across the seemingly endless plaza, pushing a stroller: a stout woman, a formidable presence in a black, full-length shawl.
	location: San Francisco date: June 2002 average rating: [not rated] your rating (0-10):