Across the bus, a young boy caught his eye. His blue eyes were rimmed with red. His curly hair sat is a messy mop on top on his head. He looked utterly hopelessly alone.
He knew that look.
The boy reminded him of the summer when he turned twelve.
He had sat on a bus, much like this one. Shipped to his distant aunt's home after that wretched accident. That awful day when reality pulled the rug out from under him and whisked his parents away forever. He remembered crying for days at a time. He remembered sitting in the ugly bus seat with burning eyes begging his heart not to break in such a public place. That was the most he could do back then, beg the feelings not to overwhelm him and curse them when they disobeyed. His cousins didn't understand why he was always angry. No one did really. He was sick of their pitying looks and their meaningless condolences. It was all words. Nothing could change what had happened to him. No amount of sorry was going to fix it.
He had taught himself not to cry that summer. He managed to take all the rage, confusion, and pain and twist it into his own tool. The feelings fueled his art, made him successful. But he'd give it all up if it meant never feeling that pain at all.
He wished he could tell the boy it would be alright, whatever it was that he was fighting to push down. He wished he could reach across the seat and console him. But how would that look?
Instead, he gave the tiny girl with the blonde, ringlet curls nestled under his arm an extra dollar and told her to buy some candy to share with the little boy. His daughter obeyed immediately, excited at the prospective new friend. When his wife gave him a questioning glance, he sighed and told her it was nothing.
When the girl plopped down next to the boy, he seemed wary. But her constant chatter was infectious and soon he was easing into conversation.
If only someone had done that for him, the man thought maybe he wouldn't have spent so long feeling alone.
