There’s a kid living on our street who I call Spoons. There’s nothing strange about the way he looks. In every aspect, he looks just like a regular kid. He’s that 10 or 11 year old boy we’ve all met that never managed to fully lose his baby fat. The one with the messy brown hair and the scared round eyes.

We live in what I guess you could call a poor neighborhood. It has all the clarifiers anyway. There’s people living in rooms overtopr people living in rooms down the road, plenty of trash lining the gutters, and plenty of people to encounter awkwardly to remind you of how fortunate you actually are.

Spoons is one of those people. He lives in a suite with his mother and his younger sister. Their place is the top floor of a house right next to mine and their front door is a stone’s throw from my bedroom. In the summer, when being outside is tolerable, there are nights when the mother sits on the stairs and weeps. Or she screams into her cellular phone. When this goes on, I find myself lying awake in my bed and wondering how Spoons is dealing with all of this. Continue reading