this one talked to me when i was bored
this little boy has only the monday morning mist for best friends
i was at the local bus stop when he showed up. not waiting for a bus and not really waiting for him or anything at all, just watching the rain fall down, make that fantastic sound that it does, holding my own hand to avoid feeling detached from myself as i tend to do when the beauty just overwhelms me moments like that. we're not best friends, he is not my brother, in fact i've neither talked to him before or even seen him around. which is a big deal. i thought i knew everyone around here.
he is wearing a red shirt, i see, which he is trying to cover with a black jacket (that is too small for his body to begin with) like he is embarassed by it. he wears glasses which seem without purpose since all he does is look down, watching his shoes maybe or hopefully i thought the way the water falls and splashes back up. i thought the rain would have stopped around seven minutes ago but it just keeps getting harder and he looks like he would be shivering if it wasn't for the audience. i have had my eyes on him for a while although i haven't been doing it intentionally...
hey, he says, it bothers me that you insist on looking, the way you do.. .
sorry, i say. it seems only like a dream i would have, this, not many people live around here and definitely does not rain that often. and you are really beautiful.
are you going anywhere, he says. is that a stupid question since we're here, at the bus stop.
no, i say. you would think living in a town such as this all we would want to do is take the first moving vehicle west where life is speculated to have more meaning..
it just moves faster, he says.
there's something about the shirt that's bugging him. he's playing with it, pulling it away from him sometimes, stuffing it in his pants, taking it out. it's fine by me if he wants to take it off. and then it will be too cold before he knows it and i have two arms i can put around him as i hope he has noticed.
is that where you're from, the west...
it seems like a waste, to engage in a dialogue that has not more than a momentary importance and serves only the purpose of us pretending we care about each other's stories. i never really wanted to know how in the hell he ended up here and i'm silently praying he ignores my last question. the water comes down harder, faster and we only open our mouths to leave vapor trails in the air, trace it with our fingers, celebrate the manifestation of god that is this beautiful weather. where is everyone that has been waiting for jesus or muhammed to show up.. maybe this is it, the cold beautiful weather that plants itself like a stark white ghost on windows of lonely bus trips which i think exist only so people can spell their names into the fog along with heart shapes and arrows.. i used to do that, then lick my fingertips when i'm done and eventually get off the bus fully aware the silly drawing will come to an unsuspecting stranger later the same day.
i used to believe in something.
i hadn't seen god in a while, he says. and trust me i have been looking. and trust me it shouldn't be this hard, i work in the fields, i get to see the crop every day, the sun shines on me and i watch my hair turn gold, my skin turn brown.. i dance with the earth under my feet, i hold the earth inside my hands.. there are days when the breeze takes me in its arms and pushes me down the hill, to the water, all the way down.
sounds really nice, is all i say.
i just told you it isn't, he yells. it wasn't, he says then, softly. until today. until this. he has the strangest timing up there...
you and i, we're one in the same i want to tell him. i am you without the strong arms, without the weight on my shoulders, but i cry in the dark like you do. will you come with me when the rain stops so i can read to you. we could lie in my bed so you will notice the cracks in the wallpaper. i want to see you without socks on, without your red shirt (as fond as i am of it). let's discuss the shortcomings of the sun, how the summer heat drives us boys mad every fucking year...
you are me with a stronger sense of security. you have read less books but you know how to be grateful.
(and you have the most beautiful mouth and i like how you poke it in the corners with your tongue when you want to speak but don't know what to say.)
i hadn't seen god in so long, he says again, his gaze upon the world so fierce, piercing it the way one would peel an orange. when he hops on the bus, i find myself expecting a little goodbye kiss, a hesitant wave. how about we hug each other and pretend it is for punctuation. he makes it simple: he disappears into one of the seats in the back. when i stand up close enough to feel the water on my nose, re-playing our conversation in my head and contemplating the frequency of stormy weather in the west, i am pretty sure i can see a heart drawn inside the wet blanket of mist that has covered the windows. an impromptu love-note perhaps, and a finger that disappears into thin air behind it.
i blink once and the bus takes off, and he leaves like he'd never showed up in the first place, like he will never be here again, in his mind, over and over, for years to come, drawing himself dreamscapes of an old memory that is currently still today. when i think about his mouth, i am holding my own hand, watching the bus leave, grateful i have a book for distraction, the last thirty four pages to read before the rain stops. i take off my shoes, let my hand go and make a warm nest out of the cold stone bench that is patiently sitting right behind me.
i hadn't seen god in a while, i say quietly. and i know that the wind understands, even as it keeps blowing its distracted haze.