Picture A Facade

A dismal black haired boy.
Who isn’t a victim.
Sits at the very back of the bus.
Slouched in his seat.
A smug look on his face.
Not sad, not happy.
Angry perhaps.

Slouched, his head cocked to the side.
The greyness he sees in the blue clouds.
Can be visibly noticed through his eyes.
Leaned against the window aimlessly.
He is thinking or feeling.
Or searching but in vain.

And you sit accross from him, and try not to stare.
It is something you wish you could paint.
Because it represents something so human.
Does it not? Depression with oneself?
One’s unhappyness consuming?
Such a human characteristic.

And here you see this masterpiece.
And you know he brought this to himself.
But maybe everybody does.
The poor boy, just a soul caught up in the mess.
He looks so lost and unforgiving.
Perhaps this is the moment in his life,
When he will forever become a “man”.

You approach the boy, and this is not in your nature.
But you seem to want to approach him.
To speak to him, to find out what is bothering him.
And as he sees my eyes contact his,
He smiles the most beautifully innocent smile.
A gleam that was so hidden in his previous stance.

I feel a compassion I have never felt.
An overwhelming need to touch his heart.
And bring back that hope he seems to be looking for.
In the grey skies.
“Are you all right?” I ask.
Again, that mesmerizing smile.
Such a beautiful little boy.

He nods gently so as to not divulge his loss.
And you know he has divulged it a million times before.
And no matter what he still remains burnt.
The poor, poor boy.
“So you’ve told a million un-helpful people before, I gather?”
He looks at me as though I surprised him.
Another beautifully dynamic look.
“Yes indeed, a million times before.”
Again, an incredibly soft smile and a “thanks though”.

I am older, wiser, and have most likely seen a larger amount of pain.
Be it through television, life, family or children.
And this little boy seems so hopeless in his little world.
Perhaps a girl hurt him? Perhaps he failed an exam?
Such minimal little unimportant aspects of life,
And he looks as though he will end it as soon as he gets home.

Nothing for me to do from this point onwards.
The poor boy has made me think about my life, and my stop is coming up.
I look at him again, and he is somewhat uneasy.
Perhaps he has never been cared for.
And I see that he wants to care and be cared for.
And after this very moment, this very day.
He could change forever, his innocence a thing of the past.
And he will become a “man”.

I am here on this pivotal day, to witness this transformation.
This little boy is becoming a cruel man.
Because he will blame people for his pain.
Little as it may be.
And the hate will grow, and grow, and burrow.
Like a tumor in his heart.
A cancer of joy.

I get up upon pulling the cord, and I turn to him.
He looks up to me, a slight smile on his face again.
I lean down, opening my arms, and give him a tight hug.
And the sweet little boy squeezes me almost immediately,
Tighter than any of my children have ever attempted.
We hug for a few endless moments, and I depart.
And it seems he is mesmerized by something.

As I walk out the bus, I don’t look up but walk forward.
Head towards my house, my life, my family.
And I still wonder why he stared at me that last moment so.
Why he looked perfectly content that last moment.
I enter my house and gaze at the bright mirror that graces the entrance.
And I notice my look, my face, and my heart.
The little boy gave me his smile.

~A spoken word is a moment. A written word is eternal~

Moe R.

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