We were standing in a country
I've only been in two times before, when a little boy
no older than four, walked up and grabbed my bag from
right out of my tired hands.
"Daddy, what's in the bag?"
he said without even looking at me, riffling through
the contents of my souvenirs as the bag crinkled and
swung in his little arms.
Before I could realize, my hand was
on his tiny head, covered in dark brown hair. I
looked down upon him, smiling,
just a little confused.
"Umm, excuse me? Excuse me…uhh…"
I muttered as he looked at the candy I
had bought for my little brothers. I glanced around,
looking for a parent, a guardian, someone…
And after a moment, consisting of this boy sitting
on the ground, that acted just as confused as I was,
a man in his forties with dark gray hair
realized there was a certain aspect
to his trip that had gone missing.
And after several minutes of name yelling,
this little boy looked up at me, ridiculously surprised and
with big round innocent eyes, about the size of two cherry pies,
he realized his case of mistaken identity, and after
cordial excuses and apologies, we parted ways,
us going one, the father and son another.
And behind my laughing hysterically and
fighting bouts of rolling on the floor, I realized
how much home was really home, and how
much I missed my little brothers.
Besides, I'm a little young yet
to be Daddy to anyone.