The kid only came up to my waist, but there was a confidence about him, or an intensity, something you don’t see in kids, something different from focus, but with focus in it.
And he had glasses on, so he reminded me of me, or of how I imagine I was, or maybe just of people who’ve told me kids in glasses look like how they imagine I looked.
When his mom paid, he stood very close to her, looking up at her, but she didn’t notice. His head was cocked, and he stared, quiet and still. Then, without warning, he smiled, brilliant and bright and crooked, like he’d come to a conclusion, and was pleased with it. When she looked down, ready to corral him onwards, all she saw was the smile.
The boy walked in her shadow, and within two steps, he exploded with all the pent up excitement of someone carefully waiting their turn.
Where’s the restaurant?, he asked, and she said, I’ll show you, and off they went.
And the moment made me happy and sad at the same time, with the excitement and the intensity and the quietness of the kid, with the way he trusted his adult, who bought him books and food, the way he seriously went about mapping his world. And the way his world was a good one made my heart ache, because I knew it wouldn’t always be. The world isn’t always kind to intense young boys with glasses and books and patience.
With the heartache, I wonder, what’s broken in me that I see excitement and auger tragedy?
So I send a prayer and a wish, that as this boy grows and learns and loves, that whatever he loses, he’ll one day find again.