The Boys
First one planted the seed, then they gave it plenty of water and sunlight. A sapling soon sprouted from the earth. Now one needed to ward off weeds so the plant could grow in peace. After many years the sapling would become a tree. All this August knew because he came from one. Yet he knew very little about real boys.
He stood with his fingers threading through the wire fence, pressed close so he could watch the kids on the other side. August learned a lot about this world by reading books, but couldn't find any that divulged the mysteries of the real boy. Like, why did some boys hit a ball with a stick and then run around? And why were these boys kicking a ball back and forth?
The ball hit his fence, making him jump back in surprise. One of the boys ran up to retrieve it. He noticed August and the two boys stared at each other. August could hardly remember the last time he was face-to-face with a child his age. He spent so much time on the road he hardly gave himself time to socialize; staring at this kid now, he realized that was probably a mistake.
"You want to play with us?"
"I don't know how," August confessed. "Because," he quickly added, seeing the shocked expression on the other boy's face, "my father travels for work and takes me along with him. I don't have time to play any games."
Not only did the boy accept this story, but he enthusiastically invited August to play with them anyway. It turned out the game wasn't that hard: he just kicked the ball to the other boys. After they tired themselves out they sat in the grass to swap stories. Obviously the boys wanted to hear about his travels, but he insisted on hearing from them instead.
They talked to him more about sports and school. To his amazement he discovered they were also interested in saving princesses and heroic journeys. Some of those heroes carried strange weapons: bullwhips and swords of light, for example. The boys still loved them and lit up when retelling the stories. August casually mentioned stories he knew, but the others scoffed and dismissed those as fairy tales for babies.
Vaguely August was reminded of those boys he fell in with back at home. "The stories were better the way my father told them," he insisted. When they exchanged doubtful looks August was compelled to clarify: "For one thing, Prince Charming kills a siren."
"That definitely would make the story better," one of the boys agreed.
"Maybe I can tell you more stories later," August suggested. "My father will be looking for me." He stood up, brushing the grass strands off his shorts. He was reluctant to go, but these boys had parents and houses waiting for them.
August spent the evening listening to the trees. The familiar creaks of the moving branches, the calls of the nocturnal animals, the smell of leaves and bark… Usually these things made him think of home and he felt at ease. Tonight all he could think of was laughing boys kicking a ball around, and rescuing pretend princesses with light swords.
He came back again and again, soaking in the presence of these boys greedily. Even if he knocked them down they still seemed to like him. So much that he couldn't bring himself to say goodbye when it was time to move on. He just disappeared from their lives, leaving all his stories with them.
As he climbed into the train car he thought he heard a baby crying. August wiped at his cheeks until they stopped feeling wet.