Here is a usual kind of spring: in my yard, where all the good soil has disappeared, where nothing grows out of what’s left, where hoping that October bulbs will rise in May is just looking for heartache, here in this yard, bluets appear. Their emergence stuns a non-gardener.
Here is a different kind of spring: a thin, dreamy boy, probably in fourth or fifth grade, heading someplace after school. By chance, I’m walking behind him. Half his body weight has been crammed into his backpack, and he’s strolling down the street, maybe enjoying the warmth of the day or the hum of the wind. He might be heading home, or to practice, or nowhere in particular. He seems in no hurry.
I’m surprised to see he’s without a cell phone; that third hand usually found between the other two. Also, there are no Bluetooth earbuds sprouting from his own. For company, he has himself.
Posters are regularly taped on trees and telephone poles in the neighborhood. Some have arrows pointing to the estate sale being held on Saturday between 10 a.m. and 2 p.m. (when they’re not removed on Sunday, it leads me down an irritable road). Some advertise upcoming high school theater productions. And some ask for help with missing pets. Occasionally, there are rewards, and quietly heartbreaking requests (“please approach slowly, he’s afraid of people”).
I’d noticed this particular poster before. There was a photo of a cat, and the description was full of love and unlikely hope. Because coyotes on the Hill have been driven out of their niches by real estate developers and inexcusable parking lots, sad fatalists like myself fear that only the remnants of a pet are likely to remain by the time the poster goes up.
The boy walked a few steps past it. Then he stopped and turned back. He stood in front of the cat’s photo and began to read the print, slowly and carefully. It took him a long time. I watched him and thought: he cares to know.
If this is the season of growth and beginnings, here was a different kind of spring. I understand that he was most likely remembering a post he followed on Instagram, or a video he had found on X. I understand that in only a few years, he will become angry at his parents and find them at fault for his problems. He will have troubles ahead, and he might cause trouble for others while he’s going through them. But watching him, I also felt an unfamiliar hope. There was something about the way he turned back, and about the full, quiet attention he gave to a missing cat, that made me think there would be more attentiveness and care for the world ahead.
When he was done reading, he started strolling again, heading wherever he’d been headed, back on the street and bent under the backpack. He couldn’t help the cat. But strange as it sounds, a young and thoughtful fourth- or fifth-grader might eventually help the rest of us.
Elissa Ely writes about seniors/baby boomers for The Belmont Voice. She is a community psychiatrist.
