Fifth grade, first day. Mr. Jenkins stood at the crosswalk with his stop sign, calling out names like he'd known us for years.
He said 'Good morning, Marcus' and I stopped. He knew my name. I was just one of a hundred kids.
A few weeks later I found an orange prescription bottle on the curb. The name on it was his.
I picked it up, wiped the dirt off, and handed it to him after school. He laughed, said 'Good eye, kid,' and tucked it into his vest pocket.
That was the first time I saw him as a person, not just a crossing guard. He had a whole life I never thought about.
Now I'm twenty-two, writing tickets in the same school zone. The new guard doesn't know anyone's name.
The pickup line snarls every afternoon. I watch the kids run across without looking. Mr. Jenkins would have whistled them back.
That little orange bottle taught me something. Everyone's holding something fragile, even the people who wave you across the street.