Friday, April 26, 2013

Sympathy for the Elf Locks

Skinny tween kid, delicate, pale wrists poking bony out of too-short hoodie sleeves, empty stare of the tabula rasa, stands right in the subway door where everybody is getting out. His too-long, dirty mop perches on his head and lends him a waif-ish air.

A long grown part of me aches for his dumb face, his slack-jawed vacancy in the face of the jostling hordes, knowing what's in store for him.

"Oh kid," I think, "wash your hair."

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