The young boy chases the girl around the playground, as she laughs and allows the sun to wrap her skin in warmth. A boy watching from under the shade of a nearby tree finally decides to join in their festivities. All of the children run around the playground and enjoy a moment that defines youth and innocence; a moment that each secretly wishes might last for an eternity. Oh, how I wish that could be me. No longer do I remember what that feels like. A shiver runs down my spine as I come to a realization that I am completely alone in the world. I haven’t always been this way, though. Thinking back to my years as an infant, I recall my father’s delicate hands against my back, cradling me slowly. I will never forget my mother’s round hazel eyes as she gazed into mine. They were beautiful, and her eyes used to fill me with a brief reminder that everything would be okay. Tears now fill my eyes, but I wipe them away. I long for a family, a home, where we could gather around the fireplace and tell silly anecdotes. If only that night had never happened, maybe, just maybe, I could have a normal life.
I remember it as if it were yesterday, although it happened 2 years ago. It was a chilly winter, and I was at home with mother, working on puzzles in the living room. Puzzles never ceased to amuse me, for they presented me with a challenge. At times when I could not fit certain pieces together, I became despondent. My mother and father helped me finish it, and calmly reminded me that everything challenging could be overcome with time and patience. In the end, a finished product would depict a picture of something beautiful, making the struggles worth it.

That day, however, something was different. None of the puzzle pieces seemed to fit together. I missed father, and mother told me he was on his way home from work. We waited for what seemed like days, although it turned out to be just an hour or two. That’s when we received the call. Mother answered it, eager to hear my father’s calm and tender voice once she picked up. But, after a few seconds of listening to the other voice on the phone, I realized it was not my father’s. She began to break down into tears. It seemed as though her world was crashing down, and I could tell that’s exactly how she felt. I was only 8 then, so of course I did not understand what was happening. After a while of crying, her sorrow turned into anger. She screamed and threw the phone against the wall, knocking chairs over as she made her way to her bedroom. “Why would you leave us like this, David?” she screamed when she finally reached her room. Not thinking clearly, she grabbed a pillow and attempted to suffocate herself with it.
Now even more terrified, I intervened by tugging onto her green blouse rather harshly. I loved that blouse, for it seemed to accent her eyes even further. She turned to me; voice sounding soft and dismal as she continued to say, “Benjamin, your father... He was in a car accident on his way home from work. He’s gone.” These exact words would never leave my mind, for they haunted me the way a monster may haunt a child. I did what any 8 year old would do upon hearing such devastating news. I ran. Grabbing my favorite charcoal sweatshirt, I made my way out the front door, not stopping to look back. I didn’t even think about my mother, because at that moment, it would just be about me. Little did I know I would end up regretting my selfish decision in the future. My mother’s voice rang inside my head as I ran. Come to think of it, she was probably calling out my name, screaming for me to come home.

Thinking about these traumatic events, tears begin to form my eyes. I had no idea that such a quick decision would mean being homeless without a mom for 2 years. 730 days. I’ve been hiding in alleys most of the time, trying not to be noticed by the public in fear of being taken to one of those horrid orphanages. I know better than to put my fate in the hands of strangers. There have been some times that I’ve though about giving in, seeking help, especially during the harsh cold winters. But I have become independent, and innovative as well. Here and there I find myself sleeping on benches, wearing the clothes that I walked out of my house in on that dreadful day. Just thinking about it makes me feel filthy. Not to worry, I’ve changed here and there, for us homeless folks have our ways of acquiring the nifty objects necessary for survival. That’s why I was able to obtain food and some toys as well. If you call a spool of yarn or a filled out crossword puzzle a toy. Thankfully, there is always something to do in the populous city of Boston. Often I have to maintain a low profile, so as to not draw attention to the fact that I am alone. “Where are your parents, little boy?” is the question I receive most often. My reply is always the same, “They’re in the car waiting for me. Where are your parents?” At this point, an adult usually walks away, mumbling about how the future generation is doomed. Today, I plan on doing something different. I plan on venturing to Brattleboro, Vermont. The bus station that surrounds me now appears very poor, and trash seems to consume the ground, almost complimenting the graffiti covered walls. I sit in silence on and old bench, waiting alone. This is nothing new to me, but I expected more people to be there. After about 20 minutes of waiting, a large bus comes into sight. On the side I make out the words, “Greyhound”, although they are almost completely faded. Closing my eyes and taking a deep breath, I stand up and make my way towards the bus, money in hand. Now, you’re probably wondering how a 10-year-old boy living in poverty got a hold of money. The answer is quite simple: Stealing. I have become quite a professional at pick pocketing individuals who are too consumed in their busy lives to even notice. Some look at me as a criminal, but you don’t fully understand until you walk in my shoes, and realize how hard it is to survive on your own. I saved up enough money to eventually be able to buy myself a ticket. In fact, I’ve been saving up for almost a year now. Feeling bad about stealing, I would only take change, so as to ease the guilt that I was doing something against the law. It took time, but I finally reached my goal, and here I am about to embark on my journey. To Vermont I go, because this could change my life forever.

When I was 5, my mother told me stories about how she dreamt of going to Brattleboro. She saw pictures and always talked about how beautiful it was. I did not fully understand why she felt this way, but the way she spoke about it, made me want to feel passionate for it as well. She always referenced the farmer’s markets, art festivals, indie stores, all surrounded by breathtaking mountain views. One day, she told me, “Benjamin, we’re going to go there one day. When we have enough money, we’ll go, I promise you.” We did not live in the best of conditions then, so I imagined that starting a life in Vermont would mean a much happier life for the three of us. So today, this is where I was headed. I grasp tightly to the idea that maybe I would find her there. However, my expectations are low, because I do not want to end up discouraged and lose all hope of ever finding her. “Excuse me, are you going to board the bus, young one?” I look up to find the bus driver trying to grab my attention, hoping not to startle me, since he saw I was lost in my reveries. I realize I have been standing in the same spot, while the bus driver desperately tried to bring me back to reality. Fortunately, he does not seem pompous so I could tell he had a genuine concern for me. “Sorry,” I mutter, trying to sound sincere, but failing. He smiles, voice gentle as he replies, “It happens to the best of us.” Handing him the money, I step onto the bus and walk towards the very back, passing several passengers as I make my way. Walking quickly so as to avoid eye contact with any of them, I finally find an empty seat. The bus driver looks into his mirror then closes the doors and begins to pull out of the bus station. Here I go.

The trip will last 3 hours and this frightens me, because as I mentioned before, it means more time to think about all the regrets in my life. I try to block out all my troubled, guilty thoughts and stare out the window. After an hour or so, the landscapes become beautiful. The bus drives by fields and fields of flowers, which leaves me speechless. There’s more to the world than just the city life, and I finally begin to appreciate nature and the rural aspect of life. If only I could enjoy this view with my mother. Suddenly, I begin to think of my life again. What if I don’t find my mother? What if I learn something about her that I don’t want to learn? Or worst of all: What if I do find her, and she doesn’t even recognize me? These thoughts overwhelm me, and seem to fill my head nevertheless. Tears begin to stream down my face uncontrollably now, and it is as if these were 2 years worth of tears. The first time I realized I might not see my mother again, I didn’t cry. I don’t know why, but part of me felt the need to stay strong, for I felt tears meant a loss of dignity, and a sure sign of weakness. But now, it was all coming out, like a stream of sorrow, guilt, and hopelessness. People begin to turn their heads in my direction, wondering where my parents are. They probably find me to be obnoxious, as I am disturbing the peace that comes with their quiet bus ride. I think about getting off the bus. Maybe, if it doesn’t stop, I can just have the driver open the doors and jump out. Maybe that is the best option for me right now. As I seem to drown in my own tears, a lady taps me on the shoulder. My vision is blurry, so I am not aware of who is disrupting me, but I know it is a lady because of her soothing voice. I continue to stare at the ground, embarrassed, thinking, I look like such an idiot right now. I’m so weak. The lady interrupts my thoughts by calmly asking, “What’s wrong?” I refuse to answer her, for I am not here to make friends. Friends, I’ve learned, are not worth it. I am better off alone, being independent. She makes herself comfortable as she takes off her coat and places it onto my back. She could tell I was cold. Then again, you’d be cold too if you were wearing a light sweatshirt in 30 degree weather. I close my eyes, still trying to hold my tears back, but listening intently. “Whenever my son cried, I would comfort him by telling him everything would be okay. I am not aware of what you have been through, but from your tears, I can tell your life hasn’t been the easiest. It will be okay. I promise, now is not forever.” Though she speaks words of wisdom, her tone reveals that she does not fully believe her own statement. It is almost as if she is trying to convince herself while she attempts to comfort me. I sense the pain in her voice, and decide to disregard my own, if only for a moment. More than anything, I’d like to thank her for giving me hope when I needed it the most. Rubbing my eyes and wiping the tears away from my sleeve, I open my eyes and blink until my vision is focused upon the woman. She now looks into mine, and we sit there, making direct eye contact. The world appears to be still. No words need to be spoken, as the remaining pieces of the puzzle are finally put together to create a beautiful picture. Those eyes. I open my mouth, nearly stumbling upon my words, but managing to choke out, “Mother. I’ve missed you.”