Entry #E-2: "Ex"
Today I was watching television, and a show I didn't recognize came on. I liked the animation because it moved slowly and gently to soft playful music. The story was about a little boy who picked some flowers for his mother and then left them on the school bus. He spent all day trying to find them, and by the end of the day he had given up all hope and started to cry. The next morning the school bus came back for him and he found the flowers, but they were all wilted and their bright colors had faded to dull, heavy ones that did not fit with the color scheme of the rest of the cartoon.
He gave them to his mother anyway.
And she loved them anyway. Even though I can't imagine why she'd accept them when they had been on the floor of a school bus.
I rode a school bus once.
It was dirty and loud and I felt choked. I got off too soon, because I couldn't stand the smell and the constant movement and the boy kicking my seat. It was still in the city and it was getting dark. I started walking and didn't find my house. It was Paris and it was alien.
After a time, it became too quiet and I knew that I was being followed because I couldn't hear the little creatures. It was still warm enough for crickets but they were not making any sound. Fear.
Hands on me. Loud voices. Pain, pavement, and there was blood in my mouth and in my eyes and a ringing in my ears that wouldn't stop. They choked me and started to take away my clothes.
A man with a big stick and a harsh voice ran at them and they scattered like cockroaches. He asked me if I was OK, used a quiet voice, helped me up. He took me back to a building with white walls and gave me a cookie while he made some phone calls, and then he drove me home. When my mother saw me, she started crying. It is what "helpless" sounds like.
It was when I knew that I wanted to be a police officer, and my mother knew that I could probably never be anything.
Maybe I should have brought her flowers. If I had ever seen past the colors that were too bright... I might have been a better son.
He gave them to his mother anyway.
And she loved them anyway. Even though I can't imagine why she'd accept them when they had been on the floor of a school bus.
I rode a school bus once.
It was dirty and loud and I felt choked. I got off too soon, because I couldn't stand the smell and the constant movement and the boy kicking my seat. It was still in the city and it was getting dark. I started walking and didn't find my house. It was Paris and it was alien.
After a time, it became too quiet and I knew that I was being followed because I couldn't hear the little creatures. It was still warm enough for crickets but they were not making any sound. Fear.
Hands on me. Loud voices. Pain, pavement, and there was blood in my mouth and in my eyes and a ringing in my ears that wouldn't stop. They choked me and started to take away my clothes.
A man with a big stick and a harsh voice ran at them and they scattered like cockroaches. He asked me if I was OK, used a quiet voice, helped me up. He took me back to a building with white walls and gave me a cookie while he made some phone calls, and then he drove me home. When my mother saw me, she started crying. It is what "helpless" sounds like.
It was when I knew that I wanted to be a police officer, and my mother knew that I could probably never be anything.
Maybe I should have brought her flowers. If I had ever seen past the colors that were too bright... I might have been a better son.