Sunday, August 10, 2014

The Boy and the Train Station

                I sat on the subway bench, waiting for my train to come. The air was dense; the darkness in the tunnels lent itself to the thickness of the air. I had a paper with me, but I didn’t bother reading it. Anything important I wanted to know I’d seen already on the news station.
                I sighed, shifting in my seat. As I glanced to my left a smile played on my lips. There was a little boy, no older than 6 years old, sitting on the bench about six feet from me. A floppy, stuffed dog was beside him. From its looks it must have belonged to a parent before being passed to him. But the boy’s hand now held my interest, as well as his.
                I couldn’t tell what the boy was doing. He was frozen, looking down at his hand with droopy eyelids. His hand was in a very loose fist, raised just to shoulder level. His index finger was raised, and his thumb curled neatly beneath to meet his other three fingers.
                If the boy was trying to point to something, I didn’t know what, as his finger was curled. He turned and looked at me. I made eye contact and gave a little smile. The boy’s expression didn’t change much, but his eyes glanced over me. His solemn little face then turned its attention back to the finger.
                A subway roared past on the opposite track. The boy paid no mind. Slowly he arched his neck forward a little, bringing his head a bit closer to his hand. I still couldn’t tell what the boy was doing. Suddenly the boy’s little red tongue darted out. It hit his finger just as his mother turned around. I instantly turned, unfolding my paper, but I kept an eye loose as I listened to the mother loudly scold the little boy. He wiped his nose on his sleeve, gathered his stuffed dog and took his mother’s hand.

No comments:

Post a Comment