My name is Corinne Latch, and I’m 82. Every weekday at sunrise, I put on my reflective vest, pick up my battered whistle, and take my spot at the Pine Street crosswalk beside Franklin Elementary. I’ve been a crossing guard there longer than most of the teachers have been alive. My daughter says, “Mom, retire already,” but she doesn’t understand this corner is where I feel needed. Where I can listen to the world in the gaps between footsteps. Two months ago, I noticed a boy I’d never seen before.