The shrieks arise from all sides, as we, strangers all of us, jump in a completely unrehearsed, perfectly synchronized dance of dread. It’s an instinctive scream, helpless in its futility.

Hot, sticky summer days in Lakewood aren't meant to be spent in the playground,

pushing babies in swings and chasing toddlers while wiping sweat from flushed faces.

They’re meant to be spent indoors, in blessed air-conditioned rooms, with cups of ice water and smoothies and freeze pops. But my kids never got the memo.

So there I was, once again arm-twisted into this trip. Pushing the baby in the swing and chasing the toddler and wiping sweat and coaxing them to “please, let’s leave, it’s too hot.”

Ten minutes after agreeing to “only one more time on the slide,” the heat got to them, too.

We begin our trek home, shirts clinging to our backs. The five-minute walk stretches endlessly in the shimmering heat. My house beckons in its freezing glory.

We cross a street, watching a bus drop off a gaggle of preschool girls coming home from day camp.

There is no ominous chamber music to alert us, no darkening sky to foreshadow what’s to come, only the chattering of girls jumping off the last step of their bus, the welcoming exclamations of their mothers, the rumbling of the bus as it begins heaving its behemoth self to the next stop. And the silence of a tiny girl slipping inches away from its massive wheels.

“Stop!”

The shrieks arise from all sides, as we, strangers all of us, jump in a completely unrehearsed, perfectly synchronized dance of dread. It’s an instinctive scream, helpless in its futility.

He stops.

A woman runs to grab the dazed girl, clutching her little miracle to herself. She collapses into a chair, the would’ve-could’ve-should’ve flickering on her ashen face.

I prod my little ones home. “Did you see…? Hashem saved that little girl….” the words choke through the lump in my throat. “The driver saw us….”

The driver saw us.

With a jolt I realize that I was the only one in the driver’s line of vision. The other women were standing to the sides. In that terrifying split second, was it my arm-splaying that stopped him?

Had we crossed a minute before, or a minute after, would he have noticed the other women in time to stop the bus? Would this scare have ended in an infinitely more horrifying way?

Today, there was no siren’s blare cutting through the humidity. No shielding little eyes from seeing scenes best left unseen. No fumbling over inarticulate, inadequate answers to unasked questions. No crowds gathering, whispering, crying. Only an echoing, grateful hush as we each retreat to our lives, abandoning our unwitting, unwilling roles in this drama.

We weren’t meant to have gone to the park today. I wasn’t meant to have given in to the wheedling to stay just a little bit longer. We weren’t meant to be crossing the street at that moment.

Hot, sticky summer days in Lakewood are meant to be spent in blessed air-conditioned rooms, with blessed cups of ice water, surrounded by blessed little ones, thanking the Blessed One Who puts us where we are meant to be, at the precise moment we are meant to be there.

(Originally featured in Family First, Issue 854)