Wild Wall Flower
I once knew a young boy.
He was mischievous, but had the heart of gold.
Thanks to him there was never a day the little me said “I’m bored”
There was a new story every day, always trouble coming from his way.
He burnt the onions the old lady stored, and till this day she doesn’t know who lit that fire, and demands she finally be told.
He broke my brand new scooter, the red one my grandpa got me when I was feeling down, wishing my mom was there, and that my family was together and whole.
He threw stray cats at me to scare me, he made fun, and I developed a feline phobia that took me 16 years to come out from.
But he did more.
He saved me sweets, and front row seats in the living room we watched inappropriately violent shows. Action was their passion, and I was one of the boys.
We threw around a soccer ball on the rooftop, we played house, hide and seek, role played teacher and student, role played driver and Israeli soldier.
Time passed, earth plates shifted distance, and we no longer played, not often enough did I even see his face.
But whenever I did, it would be better than the last. He made me lose it, and he made us all laugh.
He gave me attention, we had a timeless connection.
He even gave me my first sheesha smokes, but no, my corruption wouldn’t make it past the front porch.
Time flew past my ability to count, but I checked in and always asked
I loved hearing news other than of his latest troubles
Then, there were the times I saw him last.
He seemed older, more stable, but nevertheless the funniest man around
Regardless of the bad situation, and the running around
We were dealing with issues bigger than ourselves
Solving problems created by a reckless generations that chased after greed, self destructed waiting to be freed
It must have been the exhaustion, the frustration that aged his forever young soul
but I never saw it coming
the last act of mischief he had in store
You see life does that to you, it separates, it humiliates, it has no mercy, no heroic rescue. No favors to lend a sad little boy. No “what a close call, thank the lord”
No it gives you smiles then carves out your lips.
But what’s there left to say, when he’s gone, and I’m forever in torture of not knowing why.
And in his absence, I reach out to the crumbs he left behind.
I find my self playing with his shadow as when we were kids, and I relish in travelling to where he is. I get caught up in dark corners I have no pride in visiting.
I see things I shouldn’t be seeing.
Then days come, and I know things unspoken are not dealt with, still broken.
and I break with them in times I’m not prepared.
I think of this little boy, how innocent he was, how he never got to grow old.