Life in 20 Seconds

 

My morning walk took me past the middle school in my neighborhood at around 7:50 a.m., which is about 30 minutes before school starts. Approaching, I could see a boy of about 11 or 12 playing a game on the sidewalk by himself. He was being silly and at one point gently fell over while holding some device that was not a smart phone. I could tell the kid was comfortable entertaining himself and being alone. I felt an immediate kinship. 

My intuition told me that he was probably there so early for the same reasons I used to escape to the bus stop near my house a solid 30 minutes before the bus was scheduled to arrive. The homelife is terrible. The heart of my 12-year-old self ached. As I got closer, I debated what my interaction with him should be. 

Up close, I could tell by the roundness of his cheeks and the brightness of his eyes that he is not a heavy drug user. His eyes were hungry for positive human interaction. I know that look well. 

As I passed him, I looked him in the eye and said, "Good morning." 

To which he responded shyly, "Hi." And then returned to whatever device he was playing with without further interaction.

There were so many things I wanted to convey in that 20 seconds of interaction. 

I wanted to tell him that it would not last forever. 

I wanted to tell him that he could make good choices to improve his odds of getting out of there. 

I wanted to tell him that being true to himself outside of the home will help people see who he really is and some will not judge him by his family. 

I wanted to tell him that help can come in many forms, but to be vigilant wary of help that is too good to be true or too perfect. 

I wanted to tell him to never be too grateful.

But, of course, I could not tell him all of these things. What I tried to convey in that brief, "Good morning," is that not all adults are bad, and his reply of, "Hi," whilst looking me in the eyes told me that he already knows that.

This one just might make it. Like I did.