The Boy Who Plays Pretend

He came over and I gave him one number. 

He came up to ask me a question. He stood with reddened eyes and heavy shoulders. I answered him and asked him what had happened. 

This was a boy I was familiar with. I recognized his height and the shape of his fingers that always tapped the desk. I was familiar with his nods of enthusiasm and his sarcastic humour. He had asked me if I was okay and stayed until he was certain. He always waited for me and never walked too fast. I grew quite fond of him, you know. 

I don't really see him anymore. His finger taps are too far for me to hear and my footsteps faded a while ago. The boy that once stood with reddened eyes and heavy shoulders lives quite far away now. He lives amongst car alarms and late night chatter. You'll find him in alleys and crowds. He's almost blurred among those around him and is not so recognizable anymore. He stands like them and walks like them. Wherever they are, he goes. He wears his smile differently now. 

I remember the last time I saw him. He seemed more reckless than I knew him as; less considerate. His reddened eyes had deepened in colour and he hid his hands inside his pockets. I didn't understand why. He told his jokes louder than before and otherwise wore a frown I didn't recognize. 

I wonder if you'd recognize him.

His bloodshot eyes were painted red by grief and loss. His bruised hands rested in his pockets and he stood notably still. He was with the people from the crowds and the alleys. He was among those that didn't sleep and didn't care. I couldn't understand why he stood among them. In the passing moments that he waited for me and extended a patient hand to a stranger, his careless facade faded ever so slightly. 

Sometimes I think about how tired he must be. It must be exhausting to stand still and feel the dust settle under his feet, knowing he hasn't moved in months. 

It's difficult to speak about grief and the stains it leaves on the floors of the past and present. Despite trying desperately to restore it to what it used to be, there are stains everywhere. In finger taps and questions. In nods of enthusiasm and sarcasm. In waiting and walking. It trails slowly behind him even in the crowds he hides in and follows him home in the morning. 

But you see, grief does not knock, it breaks in through the window. Mourning does not ask to be invited in, it demands its own entrance. I only hope that he answers the door when he hears the gentle taps of grace that have been waiting outside. I hope he opens the door when comfort comes to restore what was eaten away by grief.  

I hope he rests in the waiting. 

You know, sometimes I wonder if the people he is around can even see him. Do they notice when he walks inside the room? Do they notice when he leaves the crowd? Do they hear him when he speaks? This is another loss altogether. To stand willingly among people who do not know him, and never wanted to. This is not their facade, it is his own.   

I hope he knows there are people who will wait for him as he waited for me. That there are those who will ask him how he is and stay until they are certain. I hope he knows that there are people who will help him take off the layers of roles he borrowed from other people; the sayings he has memorized and mannerisms he has adopted. 

I hope he is surrounded by friends who sharpen each other and remain close to each other. I hope he becomes familiar with friendships that do not dishonor each other but rather protect and trust. That through restoration, he will understand hope and perseverance.

I hope to see him again sometime. Hopefully when he gets off stage.