I watched from my window as a little boy kicked a can down the street, his hands buried in his pockets, lost in thoughts of childhood. What was he thinking? I wondered aloud. Was he contemplating what was for dinner or trying to come up with an excuse for the D he got on his math test? He stopped kicking the can when it landed in Mrs. Lane's rose bushes, and he was certainly not going near those.
He sat on the curb, using every last minute he could before heading home, which was usually the happiest part of his day. When he arrived, his mom greeted him with a kiss on the cheek, along with warm cookies and a glass of milk. But he doubted that would happen today.
He picked up a stick he had found and began drawing pictures in the loose gravel, pondering what she would say after he told her about his math grade. What about Dad, he wondered; he didn't want to think about that. I continued to watch him, his baseball cap crooked on his head, his dirty pants, and a stained shirt—thanks to his friend Billy, who had thrown a half carton of chocolate milk at him and, for once, hit his target.
As he disappeared from my sight, dragging the stick behind him, my heart went out to him. Perhaps we were both thinking the same thing. Poor little man, I thought, and closed the curtains.
Mike 2025
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