I sat next to a familiar stranger.
His face sunken in from years of harsh words and disappointment. He raspy voiced talked about how things were supposed to go and how he had such high hopes. He talked about unattainable levels of perfection that dimmed him after failing to meet them. You could see his eyes fixated off into distance but there was nothing to focus on. Things were wrong where things should be right.
He looked at his hands. Cracked, aged, and callous from the years of doing things that never fulfilled him. He rubbed the palm of his hands against his thighs as to prepare himself to stand up again. The dust from his worn blue jeans scattered into the sunlight.
I could tell he had something on his mind. It stirred within but was never allowed much more than that. An acceptance befallen within him. The same acceptance you feel when you know you are in trouble and fated to face your consequences.
“I am doing this for you.” He said as he stood up. “You should be happy.”
But we weren’t.
I wanted him to stay. I wanted him to play. I wanted him to remember what being alive meant. I wanted him to feel wonder again.