Somebody's Baby

He sits on the steps of the church, rocking back and forth; perpetual motion.  His silence is periodically broken with outbursts of maniacal laughter.  He is filthy.  His hands are black with dirt, his coat reeks of weeks of sweat, and dirt, and neglect.  His hair stands on end, unwashed.  He holds a cigarette between his fingers, unlit, never touching his lips.  All the time, he continues to rock back and forth, back and forth.  His age is impossible to determine.  He is probably much younger than he appears. 

The detritus of his stay on those church steps includes a container of chocolate milk, mostly consumed, but the sips left behind create a sticky mess.  A pair of dirty socks are strewn across the top two steps.  Someone raised as I might think him inconsiderate for littering.  He is doing the best he can. 

Efforts to engage him in conversation confirm that he probably should be on medication, but obviously is not. He has long since lost his ability to find the help he needs.  I am not equipped in that moment to be of use to him. 125 people are arriving who expect me to do my job. 

I watch him walk away as children bound off the school bus. Their noise and enthusiasm are too much for him.   I am reminded that he at some point, was somebody's baby boy; somebody's beloved grandson.  He was once a precious bundle of potential and hope.  He was once, I hope, a joyful child enthusiastically bounding off a school bus.  My heart aches.