the walk to the mailbox

A brisk west wind forced itself across my face, braising it with its icy fingers.
I tugged at my scarf, adjusting it so it would cover more of my face.
These last few days had been brutal.
I started mumbling a few choice swear words under my breath about how on days like these I hate that my mailbox is located a block up the street from my house.
I always thought those centrally located collective mailboxes were reserved for apartment complexes only.
But somehow in the mid 1980s when they built my neighborhood, some genius made the decision that they were equally great for single family communities.
“I’d like to show them,” I said under my breath.
It just didn’t make sense that you had to bundle up in a stocking cap, scarf, mittens and winter jacket and boots just to get your mail.

At that very moment, I slipped on the ice, stumbling forward, just catching myself before I went down.
The swear words were no longer whispers but said aloud.
My irritation was at a breaking point.

Just as I was rounding the corner to reach the mailbox location, I heard a bunch of commotion coming from across the street.
There was a small crowd of about five people getting out of a few vehicles that were stopped behind a big black SUV.
They were whistling, yelling and a few had their cell phones out filming something.
I wasn’t sure what was going on until I saw a few masked men in camouflage with guns step into view from the side of the car.
Intently curious, I turned and stopped to face the small crowd forming.
I noticed other neighbors were opening their doors and stepping outside to see what was going on.
Only seconds passed but it all seemed in slow motion.

I watched in horror as the masked men made their way up the front steps of a small white one story house with black shutters and a small porch, and banged on the door. They didn’t wait for anyone to answer.
A split second later one of the men raised his leg and rammed the door with his black combat boot, breaking it instantly.
I gasped, putting my gloved hands up to my mouth.

Screams erupted from the opening – a woman shouting, “Stop, stop, please!”
And then the loud, deep wails of what seemed to be a small child rose above the screams.

I wanted to rush across the street and stop these men.
I wanted to yank them from the house, to push them to the ground.
I wanted to protect the woman and her child.
But I stood frozen to the cement sidewalk, the cement sidewalk that wanted to take me down with its slick ice patches only a few moments before.
I kept seeing images of the guns in my head protruding from the belt loops of the men.
I was no match for them.
Fear held me in place.

Only moments later an older, bald man emerged from the entrance in handcuffs.
The camouflaged men were right behind him, guns pointed at his head.
The bald man had on a short sleeve button up shirt that was ripped open, his stomach showing with dark lounge pants and slippers on his feet.
It was only 15 degrees outside with a 10 mile per hour wind.

My eyes went to the entrance of the house where the woman was carrying the small, screaming child, tears streaming down her cheeks as she yelled at the men, “Stop, please stop! You can’t do this! This isn’t right!”
The masked men ignored her.
They didn’t even look her way.
They continued to lead the older handcuffed man at gunpoint to their black SUV, shoving him into the backseat.

The small crowd of people filming them were whistling and hollering at the men.
The one turned toward the crowd and sprayed what looked to be pepper spray.
A huge plume of orange smoke formed.
I couldn’t see anything.
The onlookers disappeared.
The masked men disappeared.
The old man disappeared.
And like that the black SUV was gone.

The cries of the child continued to echo down the street.
The screaming continued.

I dropped to my knees on the sidewalk, my trek to the mailbox forgotten.
I put my head into my hands.
I couldn’t watch this any longer.
My chest tightened, my breathing shallow.
All I could see were the cracks and divots in the cement, covered with dirty patches of snow and ice.
All I could see was the stone, cold concrete.