Buried Footsteps

By Anonymous

The wind stings his eyes, tempting tears into fruition.  The tears feel hot.  Although he can not see it, he recognizes the scorching feeling of redness materializing on the tip of his nose and beneath his eyes.  He wishes he’d thought of a hat when leaving this morning for school.  He wishes he’d remembered his blue woolen hat that his father had given him when he visited last fall.  His father only visits in the fall: just before school and just after his son’s last baseball game. The blue hat would’ve provided little in the way of resurrection to his frosty ears, yet he felt unmistakably out of place to be anywhere out of doors without it.  Despite this, the lack of hat that is, he does not regret walking home, or rather walking to return to the house.  Though the trudge is time-consuming, he’d rather walk than ask anything of his mother.  

Judy Hill, his mother, is somewhat like a bird; she was anxious, flighty, and fluttered each morning from the kitchen to the car in the fashion of a sparrow.  She had worked at Wellington Elementary as an interim nurse for a period spanning about two years, but when he came into the Fifth Grade, she resigned from the position for no declared reason.  His mother’s motives, however, were unbearably obvious to him; it was no coincidence the resignation was decided when he was to come into the level which she taught.  His mother’s fear of him had noticeably begun around his sixth birthday.  Perhaps she had realized her maternal instincts could not supplement the need for adequate parenting.  Perhaps she had grasped she could not longer dismiss moments of poor judgment as something her child would never remember.  Perhaps she had started to understand what the title mother meant and was painfully forced into reflection on her childhood when he blew the last of six candles. Judy Hill unequivocally fears burning pies and knocking down her son’s like of little league trophies carefully lined upon his dresser.

In any case, he is nine now and walking home.  He puts his finger to his bottom lip. He is holding a small cardboard box with a dragonfly in it; the one he raised for the science fair.  The fair holds no special significance to him, nor does the class production of Oliver.  Days run together like a book without paragraphs.  Without sentences.  Without capitalization.  Just words.  Moments stream into a collective momentum like signals on a wire, gently buzzing the taught metal but never quite disturbing it enough to be of any importance.  His life has no measurable achievements which could merit Ms. Hart’s slender fingers pinning some sort of recognition to the class bulletin board. For, expositions requiring extraordinary aptitude are customary for children of little importance, of narrow mindedness.  Exploring life through the slender lens of programmed regulations results in misguided precision following a narrow line toward treasure often found to be empty wooden cases.  A game of chess can be won if rules are followed, but that required subscription to a petty game with wooden pieces.  He approached the house. The wooden structure with linoleum checkered tiles on the kitchen floor and a stained couch in the--well,I suppose you could call it a living room.  He puts his finger to his bottom lip. His mother is perched smoking on the couch, looking out the window. He takes the hat of the hook and walks to his room.