We are among the autumn roses. Autumn roses and sycamore trees. We are strangers, connected by the peace of this tiny city square, the surprise of the afternoon sun. On the path to the square, stands a boy. His face bright with delight, pink tongue at the corner of his mouth. A ball is in his hands, blue as innocence, round as the world. He throws his world into the air. It sails up, plummets down. His face is a sunflower, his golden rays touch us all. I feel that I love him.
His mother watches from a stone bench at a distance, a paperback in her hand. The ball sails up, plummets down. She looks up, glances down. A yellow leaf is in her hair. His skin is familiar, soft brown, the color of caramel and cream. I feel I could be his mother, but I am not.
The ball sails up, plummets down, escapes his reaching hands. It rolls down the path, past the roses, past the trees. Rolls out of the garden, rolls toward the street. The boy begins to run, his legs pumping, lungs expanding his chest. His mother calls. Our heads turn. His does not. His shoes kick up clouds of dust, fallen leaves. The roses are pink, and the sun is bright. The car is red, the color of blood. The boy is caramel and cream.
His mother stands, shouts, begins to run. I am closer. I know that I love him. I too jump to my feet, start to run. I want to drag him to safety, want him to fill my arms. I want him to lean his head into the curve of my neck. I want to close my eyes, feel his soft breath against my collarbone.
He is almost at the street. I am almost right behind him. The red car is almost abreast of us. The ball rolls off the curb, blue as innocence, round as the world. The boy runs forward, arms outstretched. We scream, his mother and I, we scream, and he finally halts on the edge of the curb, teetering. The ball rolls on, the red car zooms pass, the boy watches, his gold light dimming.
The ball banks against the opposite curb and settles there. I cross the street, retrieve the ball. The boy fills his mother’s arms like he is her world. She kisses his caramel cheek, plucks a yellow leaf from his shoe. I approach the pair, mother and son. I am not his mother. I hand him the ball. He smiles shyly, his face alight again, pink tongue at the corner of his mouth. His mother smiles too, but her eyes shine too bright. I want to tell her all the things I know; things about boys and red cars and innocent-blue balls rolling into the world. Things about the feel of a boy’s breath on a collarbone, the wanting curve of a neck. But I know she knows. He will teeter on the edge again and again. Maybe he will fall. I know; she knows. This is how the world goes round and round.
I return to the roses. I sit on the stone bench. I watch them leave, mother and son, the sun too bright in my eyes.
