A Solid Little Boy

By Priscilla Wilson

I was sitting on a bench at the bus stop on my way back to Mills, when I noticed a young boy far too young to be out at 11:30 pm pacing back and forth in front of me. He checked the bus schedule and sat next me. Although I was occupying myself by listening to music and reading some poetry in an attempt to not invite anyone to talk to me, I had to halt what I was doing because I needed to know why this little boy was all alone in the middle of the night. I took out my earphones and placed my poetry in my purse, whereupon I asked this little boy if he was okay. He said that he was. He was wearing a school uniform: Green collard shirt and khaki pants. His buttons were unbuttoned and his backpack was hung across his narrow shoulder. Then, I asked him clearly and directly, why he was alone. His mother never picked him up from school, he said. He got out of school at five, and when he realized that his mother wasn’t going to show up, he killed time by going to his friend’s house and by meandering around the neighborhood. I was in utter disbelief. Whether or not it was my place, I found myself extremely angry with the mother and deeply saddened. However, he soon shared with me that this was out of character of his mother. She always picked him up promptly. I offered him to use my cell phone but he refused because he said that his mother’s phone was off; he had already tried calling it multiple times. Shortly, I learned that he didn’t have a father and although he had an aunt at home, she was certifiably blind, and therefore could not do anything. As he was sharing all of this information with me- stoically and neutrally- I was fighting back tears. I began to think about how drastically different lives we both led. When I was twelve years old at 11: 30 pm, I was safely asleep in my humble home with both of my parents just across the hall from me, most likely also sleeping. It frustrated and broke my heart that this little boy was all alone in a volatile city in a very vulnerable situation. And the most despairing part: he was completely unfazed.

We were on the same bus and we sat next to each other. We didn’t speak. He just gazed silently out the window, and I continued to read my poetry. When I saw that my stop was coming up, I tapped him on his slender shoulder. I gave him my number and asked him-actually, it was more like a plea- to call me when he got home. He said he would. I waited until 2:02 AM, but he never called- Maurice never called. I can still remember his eyes and the way they peered at me. Timid but so certain, it was as though he was trying to tell me to not take pity upon him. This was his life, his reality, and he wasn’t scared.