A child on the bus home painted me a circle.
It came as a pleasant surprise.
My day had been long and tiring, and I had, remorsefully, contemplated the meandering path of my life, my awkward relations with the world in general, the upcoming rent, and my lack of fitness, my had-been pride in months gone by. They seemed so far away, the good old days and the sparkling future.
Then, the child came and surprised me with his beautifully painted circle.
He had filled it up with all the colours he could find, and, looking closely, I saw he had painted a sheet first, and cut it out in a lovely circle later. The back had no paint smudge marks. Heh, detective me.
I beamed at the beautiful young child with all the positivity I could muster within me, and thanked him, genuinely, from the bottom of my heart. It was a beautiful gift, no doubt, to be laminated and hung somewhere on my bare walls.
As I contemplated the gift’s purpose a minute, thoughts of the simplicity and innocence of children whirled in my head. Trying to simplify my own complicated thinking, I realised maybe he chose me to give it because, perhaps, with his child’s inner eye, he saw me as a colourful being. Maybe, I too, was someone beautiful on the inside.
“Thank you, Mr. Timothy.” Being a child lover, I had had the pleasure of making the acquaintance of the shy 7 year old just yesterday.
“And why do I get this special painting?”
“Oh,” he said, “I thought it suits you.” I smiled graciously at the child.
“It suits you,” he continued, “because you’re just like it, round and always with coloury clothes on.”
I’d forgotten how cruel children could be.