For the past month, I’ve been visiting an elementary school to write poetry with 5th graders. Last week on my way there, I got stuck behind a long line of cars trailing a school bus. Every other house or so, the bus would pull up, flutter its flashing red wings, then settle in as if roosting on eggs while someone hugs their child goodbye.
Most days when this happens, I settle in myself, but I was running late and couldn’t help but think back to the old’n days when you had to live at least a mile away from school to get a bus ride. And rather than stopping every few minutes, buses picked up gaggles of kids at assigned street corners. I know, enough of that…
Nearing the school on this day, I see a young boy walking. Or should I say, I see a boy seemingly being pushed forward from the weight of his backpack, which is almost as big as he is. His back is curved like an old man, his eyes on the road in front of his feet.
He is dressed completely in black, including the backpack. No cartoon characters or superheroes, no welcoming rainbows. The only burst of color comes from his screaming red high-tops which are savagely kicking a rock down the middle of the road. I slow way down and steer around him. If not for the sneakers, he would blend into this dreary morning.
As I pass, he doesn’t pay attention, doesn’t look up, doesn’t move out of the way, just continues kicking. I try to catch his eye, to give him a smile, some acknowledgment that I see him. Instead of looking at me, he lifts his gaze and punches toward a cloudy sky, then stops … right there in the middle of the road, then punches again and again, mouth forming words I cannot hear. It is the week before Easter and though God is probably busy, I hope he’s listening.
Much later, while waiting for a class to come back from recess, I think I see him on the playground. Those red sneakers and I can’t get him out of my head. I wish to hug him, tell him not all days are as cloudy as this one. Let him know that at this moment, I’m conjuring him whole on the page. It isn’t much, but it’s heartfelt and as holy as I get.
Easter, maybe 1962
Deb, John, Me