Don't stare, don't point, do not see!

I am a small girl from a small town nearby, four, perhaps five, or six years old, walking hand in hand with my mother through the big, humming city. The streets are a restless mix of sights and colors: cars rush past, people hurry, vanish into stores and stairways, and others appear with parcels and bags in hand. My mother’s steps are wide and urgent; my legs flutter to keep pace.

There is a red light at the crosswalk, and we stand still for a breath. The crowd swells around us, then, a blind man across the road catches my eye entirely! In his hand, a slender white cane. Over his eyes—dark glasses. A soft-brimmed hat shades his face. He waits, as we do, for the light to change.

I sip the details: the cane, the glasses, his posture, the tilt of his hat.
Curiosity bubbles in my chest.
I point, and my voice breaks the air:
“Mama, what’s that?”

My mother lowers my hand, strokes my cheek, bends close, and whispers
“It's not polite to look.” Her whisper is crisp, unquestionable. I understand completely.

That was the exact moment when people with disabilities disappeared from my sight entirely.