Autumn’s final week was cold and silent on Joshua Street; slow, shivering winds entwined the crisp dead leaves upon the neglected street within a spiraled foretelling of the winter to come. The miniature tornado abandoned its company far above the pockets of trash which covered the street’s body like a blanket—no life was seen in the black starless sky.
The houses on Joshua Street were connected like pieces of an old puzzle no one cared to finish. Each home seemed to have something missing from it yet was strangely similar to the one to its left or right. The unkempt homes were unintentionally designed by its improvident inhabitants to have the same bedraggled features: Dusty unwashed windows, lock after rusted lock upon their front and back doors, a brownish black tint of dirt and neglect upon the wooden, brick or stone exterior walls. And an empty essence within, despite the wandering eyes pressed upon each window hoping for some sign of change.
Pressed upon a dusted attic window were the wandering eyes of a young boy searching ardently for a wish. As he searched he found no stars; only a handful of dead leaves in the cold wind. In the small light brown eyes of the young boy a tear began to form. Reflected patterns of mocha skin and short black hair upon an empty face, were the visions the tear gave away to the eye. But to the heart, it showed an unanswered prayer, an empty stomach and a dying mother.
“Dream-walking…it could be the journey you need to find your true love, it could be the answer you seek to end a lie or even become the question to discover your journey. But sometimes, dream-walking can be something to write your name in a cloud and bring the attention of God.
My life has not been what I sought for as a child—bringing to the streets a handful of tears and looking to trade them in for some compassion. But the world does not think the same way children do, you see—children think with their heart; the world thinks with its greed. So my handful of tears was instead traded in for a service of running drug routes past the local police and sending me home with a handful of dollars.
We put the dollars to good use; my papa and I and although most would argue trying to save something already dead is useful only in hopes and dreams—fortunately for my papa and I we have always been the living hope in such dreams.”
“Excuse me mister—“Came a small voice from behind a bleach white hospital bed. “Who are you talking to?”
