The first time I saw him, he was loading a golf cart with boxes marked in my handwriting. He was quiet and swift and clear streaks of sweat ran from his temples clearing the dirt from his cheeks. He never said a word. The florescent green shirt that rested on his back was stained, hanging to his knees. He took me by surprise. He was just a boy no older than twelve.
The next time I took a minute to fall out of my self absorbed pensive mind and notice him, he wore big yellow headphones and sunglasses. They were the kind of headphones that play AM/FM radio right from the muffs. I imagined he was listening to classic rock, something that was beyond his meager years but fitting for his overly developed soul. In his hands he held a paint bucket and brush. He moved like an uninterested landscaper. Experienced and hardly enthused. He didn't stop moving for a second though. Flipping the lid onto the grass he plunged his brush into the fire red paint. The first slap to the hydrant seemed to rattle him. He hesitated. Not because he didn't know what he was doing, but maybe because he was all to aware of what he labeled life. I watched him paint the hydrant the color of love, all I felt though was hate.
The first time I saw him smile he was with the family across from me. Apartment 704. I can't tell what his relation to them is, all I know is he loves the little boy who lives there. He picked the toddler up in an endearing way, assumingly to say goodbye. It was dusk and the lines on his face began to fade. As he turned away, his demeanor matched the overcoming darkness. The smile slipped into his pocket and his hazel eyes locked with the laces of his shoes as he hurried out of sight.
Sometimes I see him with a weedwacker on the side of the buildings, today on the side of the road. He wears the same shirt, same glasses, listening to the radio on the same headphones. I don't know what to make of this boy. I know he is no kid. I know he has seen life in a more honest form than anyone would wish to believe. I know he makes me sad. I know I just want to hug him.
"Life itself is the assassin"-O.Shamaya
