The reflection in the window

Every afternoon he is there, I see through the window of the neighbor’s house and can see him. By all means he’s there, playing around with his dog and kicking his ball. There isn’t an afternoon that I don’t see the reflection in the neighbor’s window and see him there, having fun in the park, in the swings, in the slide, under the warming sun. It doesn’t matter if its raining, he’s always there. Crossing the railing over and over again, from one side to another.

That little kid with jeans and stripped polo t-shirt, with golden hair, tender eyes and an indelible crystal smile. It is five o’clock and he’s still there, he stays there until dusk, running under the yellowish sunset. I can hear his laughter, I can hear him enjoy every second of his life. But he is only an illusion of the past, I have never seen him standing in front of me. He only lives in the reflection of the window and his voice is just an echo. One of those echoes that race through my mind. One of those I can’t forget.

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