Sitting here, reflecting on the days passed of this summer, it appears that all movements have ceased.  I fear my musings have created an incomplete picture of the boy.  Do not misunderstand me - he remains a mystery - but there were many great times we shared that I have not mentioned.  There is nothing to conceal in these meetings, they simply had become the normal order of things for me for that period of time.  It is only when these days have passed that we can see the wonder in what we have considered routine.  

    Normally he was alone and devoid of much to say.  Thus ,there is not a great deal of these times that can properly be put into words.  Sometimes they were awkward, but normally the silence between us took on an air of comfort.  It was as if there was no need to speak.  There was an understanding which simply existed in the ether surrounding us.  On occasion he would appear, follow me wherever it may be that I was going, and leave - all without saying a word.

    Many days were passed in this fashion.  The initial flood of questions which would arise regarding any and all aspects of the boy slowly tapered off into nothingness.  I posed a few to the individuals who found themselves in his company, but I never asked any of the boy himself.  In the beginning I had often planned out my line of interrogation, but once we came together the questions seemed rather irrelevant - all that mattered could not be translated.  We existed.  And that was all.

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    Games of chance were a recurring subject for him, and I would obligingly take part - on the losing side, of course.  Other times found us inventing histories for the people and creatures who crossed our path. 

Nothing momentous ever occurred.

    The events of our days were ordinary, bordering on what must have appeared to be mundane for those removed from whatever the situation may be.  Much like the weather, his appearance became an expected part of the day - but that did not mean either lacked the ability to surprise. 

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    The evening air carried the scent of fading leaves as Ashworth and I sat on our balcony - him enjoying the lightning bugs and I a dog-eared copy of E. Becker’s masterpiece.  I must have been fully absorbed by the work, for I had not noticed the boys’ arrival at my front door until I heard the knock from below as its volume intensified. 

    With a lightness of being that defied my years, I answered the door. 

    There he stood, concurrently looking both at and through me. 
    “I came to give you these,” he said, holding out four newspapers.  I had no subscription.
    He continued, “Thanks for playing, I’ll see you later.”
    
    As he was running off I called out to him, “Hey, what is your name today?”
I could see him cup his hand to his mouth, but what reached my ears was simply Un-pronounceable.  Finding Ashworth at my feet, we proceeded to watch the boy recede into the distance.   

    Taking the papers into the dining room, I turned the switch in order to examine these gifts.  But it did not light.  Believing the bulb to have burned out, I proceeded upstairs to the bathroom in order to procure a replacement. 

    Turning on the bathroom light, I realized that I still had the papers in my left arm.  Placing them on the counter beside the sink I unfolded the first newspaper. 
    
    Although it was the front page,  the paper was practically blank.  The single headline read, “Beloved Husband, father of two, and grandfather of five dies.”  Below that in smaller text, it continued, “Said to be a renaissance man, the Gentleman was 97 years of age.”  That was it.  Dumbfounded, I quickly threw open the rest of the pages, only to find them completely blank.  Staring at the front page once more, I noticed a date in the upper right hand corner - thirteen years ago.   Yet the paper showed no outward signs of having reached such an age.

    Putting it down I began to search for the aforementioned bulb, but quickly found my attention acquired by the second newspaper.  The simple headline sufficiently conveyed its’ point, “Woman, 19, found slain.”  Below that, in smaller text, it continued, “Victim’s body discovered in alley on Southwest Side.”  Again appearing brand new, the paper had a date six years prior.  Searching through the rest of the pages was as fruitless as the first had been.

    Immediately casting it aside for the third newspaper, I was met with the headline, “Wife, Mother of one, adored grandmother of three disappears.”  Below that, in smaller text, it continued, “Loved ones hold out hope and continue the search.”  This daily declared itself five years old.  I didn’t bother with the rest of it, but attempted to snatch up the fourth paper instead.   This proved difficult, however, as Gray-ee had snuck in and was sitting on it, his head cocked slightly to his right, staring at me.  Slightly cocking my own head to the right, our eyes met and for a moment neither of us moved. 

    With a prolonged blink, Ashworth stood and moved beside the discarded papers, his eyes remained fixed.  The last gift the boy had given to me had no headline, and no text whatsoever. Slowly flipping through each individual page, I found, as expected, a complete and utter lack of content.

    Carefully stacking this atop the others of its kind, I looked up and was confronted with my eyes watching themselves.  With a silent motion I flipped the switch off.  Yet the light remained.

My feet began to feel exceptionally light.