The Cheese Maker's Son

The cheese maker’s son never looks up when he walks. He stares at ground and grass in favor of faces.

The cheese maker’s son never speaks first. He rarely speaks at all.

The cheese maker’s son pretends not to care if people like him. He secretly wants people to like him.

The cheese maker’s son looks depressed when he is really just sad. Everyone thinks he is depressed.

Early one morning, he walked toward the park. He liked the park because there were people he did not have to talk to and there were trees to talk to instead. He never felt alone at the park. Along the way, he entered a café. It was empty, but not quiet; a light fixture emanated steady drones that landed on his ears like car horns.

He left the café, climbed into a bus and sat near the rear. After some time, he pulled the chord to signal a stop and left the bus. He entered another café, empty and quiet, and asked for a coffee.

He took his cup of coffee to a corner table and sat facing the wall. He sat there for a long time, thinking of nothing. Then, he remembered pulling wings off insects when he was very young. He would watch them run around and wonder what they were thinking – he imagined they were in pain, confused and sad.

The cheese maker’s son sometimes wondered who pulled off his wings. And he wondered why someone would do such a thing.