I didn't like when I had to bring children on the
boat. It made me sad, but I had grown accustomed to the emotion, it had become a
part of me in a way, it was an occupational hazard. This particular little boy
was different from the others. He didn't struggle or cry out; he just came with
me, silent and with an expression of peace on his fact. I liked it when they
came with me peacefully. I am guessing that this boy knew it had been coming,
he had accepted his fate, he had gone through the grieving process and he was
ready. He had sandy blonde hair, a striped shirt, and jeans on. His face was
dry of tears and his muscles were relaxed under my firm grip of his arm. I
swung the lantern three times and the schooner appeared. I could tell the boy
knew where the boat would take him, where I would take him. The past was the
past and he was ready to move on. There was something large in his pocket,
though I wasn't sure what it was. At that moment he pulled out a baseball, how
it fit in his pocket I wasn't sure, but the boy looked at this baseball and for
the first time the boy genuinely seemed sad. It was worn and crusted with dirt.
It was clear this ball had been well-used, a prize possession of the boy. He
pulled his arm from my grip with ease as I was hypnotized by the peculiar
actions of this boy. He took the ball and put it in my hand as a single tear
came down his face. I felt the ball in my hand, each scrape, each bump, each imperfection;
I took it and nodded at the boy as if we had exchanged some secret understanding.
The boy then fixed his eyes on the boat that was steadily approaching. He
coughed once, no twice into the blackness of the night. The boat had arrived,
it was time.
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