I saw it out of the corner of my eye – a fluttering slip on a brick wall. I was so late for work, I figured one more moment to investigate wouldn’t increase the boss’s screaming too much. I thought it an odd place for a missing child poster or an advertisement, but gave whoever stuck it there props for originality.
As I got closer, I saw how wrong I really was. It was a child, but not a missing poster at all. It was a photograph – black and white and grainy, but it looked for all the world like I could reach out and feel the girl’s silky hair slipping through my fingers. There was a depth to her eyes I started to feel that I couldn’t escape.
A blaring car horn wrenched me from her grasp and I shook my head slightly to free myself from the lingering fog in my mind, and noticed an address scrawled at the bottom of the picture. There was no name, no phone, and no explanation - just the address. Looking around somewhat furtively, I rummaged for a pen and paper and jotted down the address. As I slipped it back in my bag, my hand brushed my cell phone. Resolute, I grabbed it and dialed my office number.
Twenty minutes later, I stood in front of a dilapidated clapboard house. Thoughts trundled through my mind like Grand Central Station on a busy day. Is the photo a secret code for drug dealers? Will I knock twice and be shot for not knowing some secret handshake?
Is it a serial killer that’s just too lazy to hunt for his own prey and waits for someone to see his address and wander into his pit of death? What kind of lotion will I have to put on my skin? Should I tell him I have sensitive skin and may break out if it has a harsh fragrance?
Am I losing my mind? Was there even a picture at all? Maybe I just imagined the whole thing. What if she’s missing? How do I look into the eyes of a mother who rushes to the door hoping and praying it’s her daughter on the other side?
I press my palm to the front door and stand there – eyes closed and head bowed – and imagine her face. She was six or seven but her eyes were at least 50 years old. There was a sadness there I understand. Her eyes are so like the ones I see in the mirror every morning, except for one thing.
In her eyes, there is a distant hope I no longer have. Her sadness is tempered by an acceptance I’ve never quite worked out. The slight smile on her mouth seems to fit, somehow, with the darkness in her eyes.
I can’t stand to know why.
Sliding my hand down the stained and peeling door, I turned and walked away.