Today, I was sitting on a bench in the park behind my school, soaking in the late afternoon sun. I heard a chink. I couldn't care less and didn't bother to turn around. A dog had just gone around the bench, and I presumed it must have been that dog kicking things around.
Within 10–15 seconds, I heard another chink and turned around to shoo away the dog. I hate dogs.
As I turned, I didn't see any dog. Instead, I saw a kid, about four years old, picking up a crushed beer can from beneath the bench. His little hands were already holding one can, and with much difficulty, he picked up the other and held them close to his chest.
Our eyes met, and he looked scared. I smiled at him. He came to the front and picked up another can lying in front of me. After a couple of seconds, he managed to hold all three cans with the support of his chest. He walked away, smiling, toward his mother, who was a few yards ahead. She had just put down the heap of trash she was carrying on her head to rest for a bit.
I got lost in my own futile existence.
