The Boy

The boy stands among the young men. The boy laughs when they laugh, nervously scanning. He looks for the faces of his one-time peers. They have long left him behind.

The boy is embittered. He knows that to grow one can only wait for time. Yet some, it would seem, require more time than others.

The boy is short with his mother. He hates to be told what to do. He is always tugging at the taller fellows' jeans and bouncing on his sneaks in the hopes that he'll be seen--hopes that his voice will be heard.

He hopes than some distant camera will take its picture at the precise moment when his head reaches the level of his more vertically inclined companions.

The boy is scared--scarred. Only God knows why. He has a lot to be happy about. He could have grown with the rest, but he never learned the value of a little selfless compassion. At least when it counts.

A moral to all the admiring boys of the world: Consideration. Let this always be one of the foremost of the age-old virtues. Our colors shall quickly fade, so do what you can while you are still able.