Frankly Told: Younger Years
The leaves rustled in the wind. Nature always had this calming effect on him that he couldn’t quite explain but he sought it like a man in the desert seeks out water. In nature, he felt an easing on himself. Mental, physical, spiritual and emotional rest, he felt them all.
He looked up, through the canopy of leaves the tree he sat under had cast, at the rays that spat warmth on him. In the distance, he could hear children on the playground, yelling and laughing, engrossed in whatever new game the kids played. He smiled to himself in quiet amusement. The skies were clear for the first time in weeks and he had finally gotten the spot in the park to himself.
In his hand, he twirled his pen in an effortless cycle between his fingers. His leather-bound book lay open on his lap. He took a deep breath in and thought to himself, today, no rain. Look, today it isn’t raining, he thought. He looked back down and instinctively jotted those words down with a comma after. He pursed his lips and brought his pen to his chin.
Leaning back into the tree, his back felt every jagged edge of the bark on the old tree. On it, he would read all the initials that were carved, probably by past souls with the aim of freezing a time they knew they would come to look back on fondly. He thought to himself, on the possibility that the ones with hearts around them, were still bound by their hopeless attempts at carving a proper love heart and scoffed.
Suddenly, something came whizzing by and narrowly missed his head, rebounding off the tree’s wide stem. The breath that momentarily left him came back and he had the voice to exclaim.
“What the-?” he cut himself short of cussing as a young boy came running over to the ball, that had come to rest by a rock not too far off from where he sat.
“Did it hit you?” the golden-voiced boy asked softly.
“No,” he exhaled, running a hand over his afro.
The little boy picked up the ball and walked up to him, hugging the ball close to his chest.
“What is that you are doing?” he asked most curiously.
“Oh, this?” the man asked rhetorically. “This is just where I put things that inspire me. You know, I write words or draw things when I am inspired enough.”
“That’s so cool,” the boy’s excitement shone through his voice as he pointed at the drawing of the bird on the adjacent page.
“Ah yes,” the man smiled bashfully. “I drew that one yesterday.”
“Oh, so that is what you were doing,” the boy said, nodding slowly like an observer noting answers to unasked questions.
“Were you watching me?” the man asked.
“A little,” the boy admitted. “You have a funny face when you draw. It makes me laugh.”
“Oh,” he scoffed. “Well…”
There was a beat before the thought struck him like lightning.
“Where are your parents?” the man asked almost dismissively, slightly touched by the comment. “You know what they say about talking to strangers…”
The boy simply pointed vaguely to the playground.
“They will probably come looking for you,” the man pushed.
“They don’t care. They just bring me here and tell me to go play while they do their volunteering things,” he said nonchalantly.
“Oh … well- wait a minute how old are you?” he asked with a puzzled look.
“I'm seven,” the boy answered immediately. “I turn eight, in three weeks.”
“You must be excited,” the man humoured the boy. “Closer to ten, no?”
“Actually,” the boy jumped in. “I don’t really care about my birthdays. I just do the same thing every year. It isn’t something exciting.”
“And what is that?” the man prodded.
“Lunch with mum and dad,” he said in a deadpan tone.
“I see,” the man nodded. “Why not ask to have some friends for a party this time then? I’m sure that will shake things up.”
“I don’t have any,” the boy said, with his mouth in a straight line.
“Oh,” the word escaped the man.
He sat there awkwardly locked in eye contact with the little boy, searching for the best way out of the situation so he could be alone again.
“Who do you play with?” the man clutched at the straw.
“No one,” the boy said, shifting his weight from one leg to the other. “I don’t particularly play well with those other kids.”
“What about school?” the man asked.
“Homeschooled,” the boy shot back, pointing his finger back at himself.
“Ah, damn,” the man leaned back further into the tree, unarmed.
“Could I sit with you?” the boy requested.
“Why?” the man asked, puzzled.
“I don’t know,” the boy shrugged. “I saw that lady sit here with you yesterday and you seemed to make her happy. I saw her smiling when she walked away.”
“Just how long have you-” the man hesitated. “You know what, it’s fine. Be my guest.”
The boy sat down to the left of him and leaned back into the tree with the ball nestled between his crossed legs. Silence fell between the two. The boy looked around the tree, much like the man had done so many times before. He began to mouth each initial he read.
“Were all of these people friends?” the boy finally asked.
“Probably,” the man answered indifferently, sharpening his pencil.
“Wow!” he exclaimed. “Is it something friends do? To write names on trees?”
“I suppose,” the man entertained the boy’s questions.
“What does it mean to write your name in a tree?” the boy inquired.
“Um… okay. That is an interesting question,” the man stopped sharpening his pencil. “I suppose, it is like writing it down so it can last forever. It is like a picture.”
“Forever is a long time.” the boy said wistfully. “How do you know you will be friends forever?”
“Hmm… God, you have great questions,” the man stalled. “I suppose you just know, you understand each other, you work on your relationship, you grow together and make the promise. I think you can find someone and take them to that forever with you.”
“Do you think I will find that person to take to forever?” the boy asked in a slightly sad tone.
“Sure, they will probably have to be as philosophical as you are being right now, first and foremost,” the man joked. “Definitely, you will find someone to understand, to grow with and make that promise. We all do at some point. You might fight and lose touch but that is just life.”
“There are ups and downs but when you find that person worth keeping, hold them with everything you have,” he continued. “In fact, if they can do the same for you, you can go very far. It is up to you to find that one true friend and it can be anyone, even your mum and dad.”
“Did you ever find that person?” the boy asked and turned to the man, who looked into the distance.
There was a small pause and his hand unconsciously found the carving on the root by his right leg. A lump climbed up his throat and he swallowed painfully before saying softly.
“In my younger years.”
