He must be living in the neighbourhood. Occasionally I see him toddles towards the primary school, which is located just across the street. While other children are accompanied by their parent, this boy is always all by himself. He is a chubby creature in his 1.2mt height. Curly dark brown hair falling casually over the boy’s face, bearing a look neither particularly cute nor distinctive. At times, he is absorbed in his own world, mumbling to himself as he skips and halt along the way. He would also pick up a stick from the ground and swing it like a baton.
Our first encounter occurred about 8 months ago. He shouted across the street with an infantile but acute voice: “Sir, what a nice house you have!” That remark raised my curiosity. Isn’t it a bit precocious coming from an eight years’ old? Being caught off guarded, I could not come out with any plausible reply except the word “Thanks”.
Today we meet each other again. Right before my gate. While I am searching for my key, the little boy approaches me and utters: “Guess what I have inside my pockets.”
What? What kind of question is that? I asked myself. With both hands inside his pants’ pockets, he look up to me expressionlessly, waiting for an answer.
Could he be holding some kind of spray? Is it some kind of a prank? And why me? Trying to be as calm and nonchalant as I could, I take a step backwards and replied “er..I don’t know…. a candy, perhaps?”
“No,” he murmured, with eyes looking down. “I have a purse with some money in it.”
“Then you better keep it hidden before some big boys snatch it from you.” I assert.
The boy starts to move away before I ask “and why aren’t you at school at this hour?”
“I am going there right now, sir.” He turned and walk away with his hands still in his pockets.
I gape upon him until he disappeared in the corner. My heart was hit by a big punch, causing all the surrounding blood vessels to cling it tightly like an oyster. This conversation just doesn’t make sense. I still cannot figure out what this little boy is trying to do. Something is not right and I do not know what is it. I wish I could be cleverer to interpret those eyes, those sad eyes. They are without sparkle or vitality. They doesn’t speak at all. Does he need help? Or a friend?
Please let me see him again. Next time, I will be more prepared for him. I promise.
Our first encounter occurred about 8 months ago. He shouted across the street with an infantile but acute voice: “Sir, what a nice house you have!” That remark raised my curiosity. Isn’t it a bit precocious coming from an eight years’ old? Being caught off guarded, I could not come out with any plausible reply except the word “Thanks”.
Today we meet each other again. Right before my gate. While I am searching for my key, the little boy approaches me and utters: “Guess what I have inside my pockets.”
What? What kind of question is that? I asked myself. With both hands inside his pants’ pockets, he look up to me expressionlessly, waiting for an answer.
Could he be holding some kind of spray? Is it some kind of a prank? And why me? Trying to be as calm and nonchalant as I could, I take a step backwards and replied “er..I don’t know…. a candy, perhaps?”
“No,” he murmured, with eyes looking down. “I have a purse with some money in it.”
“Then you better keep it hidden before some big boys snatch it from you.” I assert.
The boy starts to move away before I ask “and why aren’t you at school at this hour?”
“I am going there right now, sir.” He turned and walk away with his hands still in his pockets.
I gape upon him until he disappeared in the corner. My heart was hit by a big punch, causing all the surrounding blood vessels to cling it tightly like an oyster. This conversation just doesn’t make sense. I still cannot figure out what this little boy is trying to do. Something is not right and I do not know what is it. I wish I could be cleverer to interpret those eyes, those sad eyes. They are without sparkle or vitality. They doesn’t speak at all. Does he need help? Or a friend?
Please let me see him again. Next time, I will be more prepared for him. I promise.
No comments:
Post a Comment