The Boy

Those of us who think God addresses us by means of external events are wrong, as naive as children. For he whispers directly into our innermost souls. 

------------

Cry, brother, cry. Your tears will cleanse the wound, and it will heal quickly.

--The Books of Jacob, Olga Tokarczuk

Early this morning, I saw myself out by the front gate, peeking around the corner, looking back at myself. 

I was sitting at the table, smoking a cigarette, looking at my phone, and at first it was just something quick, in the corner of my eye, a trick of light or mistaken motion.

But then I/he peeked again, and long enough this time to be definite, real--a head of wispy blonde hair, nearly white in the sun. What are we now - - 8 or 9 years old?

Hey boy, I said, Hello. 

We are thin, the both of us, yet he with the vigor and fitness of youth, I with the atrophy of age. But I was once the same as he, and he, poor soul, will be the same as I.

The boy steps more toward the center of the open gate now and waves at me. He continues to look, and I don't know what else to say, or why is looking, so I just smile. 

He dashes off then, and I am about to crawl off, sloth-like, into the house, but then he reappears, this time with his mother. 

Now she smiles, and says, He likes your motorbike.

And I and myself and he and his mother all smile. 

Well then, come in, I say. Take a good look. 

The boy checks with his mother for approval, and then slowly approaches the bike, and with reverence, as if it were an object of worship. The boy walks a full circle around the bike, this holy relic (or no, I am the relic, don't let me get confused), nodding shyly with admiration, reaching out with a hand but never quite touching. He is shy. I was shy too. I, this boy. 

And then he is gone, out into the world, and I wonder whether I will ever see myself again. I think that would be nice, but with things such as these we can never be certain.