Letters from Little Boys

Letters came every day from the same little boy. They came every day from his outstretched hand and his professional smile. It was an aged smile, solemn, wise beyond even the years of those much older.

Sometimes he stood on the corner, handing out flyers. The same hand, the same smile.

The little boy wore a little hat and a little suit and little shoes; all the same colour – the colour of that which has no colour at all. The most drab colour one could put a bright little boy in.

The little boy, his outstretched hand, his smile, his clothes, looked more sad even than the saddest of buildings in the city around him.

Compared to this little boy, even the saddest of cities seemed alive with colour, exotic and fresh when compared to the muted little boy who delivered letters and stood on the corner.

But the little boy looked not to pity himself. Though so young, his little head was down and to work he got, delivering letters, handing out flyers, learning to tie his shoes.