There he is. Silent. Unmoving and unmoveable. Looking up at me as I look back at him, still as a statue except for that moving mouth. He’s chewing-no, gnawing-on the driver’s side front wheel of a little toy car that probably has more miles on it than those trucks from the old Chevy Silverado commercials. Chances are this little thing has raced around more dirt floors and concrete sidewalks, stairs, and roads than any Hot Wheels on the market. Those teeth marks though. I can’t get over it. Of course, the whole image is haunting, something I can’t get out of my mind, evoking a response. The dirty face – a mix of sweat, grime, maybe tears, who knows. And the eyes – beautiful coffee-brown eyes imprisoned in his face like two doves inside a cage – staring up at me with a curiosity, yes, but a dull curiosity, like he is wondering why I am tall and hairy and white but at the same time not caring in the least because by age 5 he has already had more than his fair share of hardships and poverty and pain, and I can’t seem to get past that wall he’s put up to defend himself in his mind. I almost have to laugh at his little Mickey Mouse Football long-sleeve tee, wondering where he got it and if he even knows who Mickey is. Or maybe, I think cynically, maybe a family member works in one of Disney’s sweatshops. Pehaps an older brother, since he certainly has siblings, as his ratty hand-me-down jeans betray their existence. The worn and patched denim hangs four inches too long, with only a semblance of a belt tied around his waist, its excess fabric hanging all the way down to his knees. It doesn’t even surprise me that he is barefoot, his little toes peeking out from the tattered bottoms of his jeans.
He is standing in front of a beautiful cathedral.
On a Sunday morning.
Disregarded by the faithful church-goers without a second glance.
But me?
I didn’t even ask his name.
I just took this photo like I was at the zoo.
