"I don't want this anymore is all I heard her say as I grabbed my stuff and headed out the door. With my music in my phones and my bike under my feet, things started to look different as I got out on the street. Sometimes I see her face in the new people that I meet. We're not who we thought we were when we saw this dream. Sometimes when I just can't sleep I hear the words you said to me: How did you get so deep inside of me? I wake up and I move on, I admit the past is gone, I wake up and I refine. Moving foward to the next lifetime, I leave it all behind. Sometimes when I just can't sleep I hear the words you said to me: Sometimes it takes a painful loss to realize you are free. How did you get so deep inside of me?"
"I'm the star jump-roper," he said enthusiastically -- an enthusiasm that masked sarcasm, which in turn masked a cocktail of insecurity and general good humor.
He swung the plastic jump rope above his head. With a deafening crack, it hit the floor. He never actually made it through the rope.
Behind thick glasses, his round, blue eyes opened widely, and he smiled sheepishly at me. He diverted his eyes to his worn skater shoes for a moment, then looked up again.
"I'll show you the Golden Eagle move!"
"Okay," I smile. A strangely familiar warmth, a sense of contentment overcame me.
He grasped the rope in both hands and flung his arms about wildly, screeching shrilly.
I stifled a laugh, as I instinctively knew I must maintain mock-seriousness with this one.
"Nice one. But I believe your body has to go through the jump rope for it to count."
"Who are you? The jump-rope expert? Sent here to teach us how to jump rope? What are you doing here, anyway?"
Though certainly mouthy enough, I knew he meant no harm -- this time. The kid possessed an absolute gift for smart-assery.
We chatted some more. I noticed his dirty blonde hair, his Red Sox t-shirt.
"I've been hurting myself since I was young," he proudly declared. "Right after I broke my wrist and it healed, I broke my fingers and sprained my ankle."
I believed him. Dozens of scabs -- some concealed by droopy band-aids, but most of them haphazardly exposed -- covered his skinny legs. He was just such a boy.
And that warmth, that contentment, it then had a source. I remembered. A calm, almost peaceful sadness replaced it.
When I got back in my car that afternoon, I felt stupid and angry. He was just a kid. He wasn't a message, or a sign, or a godsend, or one of Satan's little tricks. He was just a boy. A silly boy with dirty blond hair and bright blue eyes and vision problems and a favorite sports team and a few injuries to boast about and an attitude. That's all.
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