The Hard Hitting Truth

“Okay students grab your coats and head out, have a wonderful weekend!”

That was Miss. Honey. Not only is she the best teacher in the world, she happens to be my best friend. Well I guess you could say that since I don’t seem to have a lot of friends, actually none at all. I try not to notice too much. I mean I don’t mind, it gives me more time to search. Right coat… I can’t help but flinch; it’s still a little sore. Try not to worry though, not only is it turning yellow but it just might be gone tomorrow. Then I can stop wearing this increasingly itchy sweater that seems to be chocking me all day. Sorry I’ll get back on topic.

My teacher is a very rare type of human. She is kind, smart and beautiful. Three hard traits to come by nowadays. Oh…my apologies it seems I forgot to introduce myself. I am William Walsh, preferably Will and I am 6 years old. Let me provide you a little glimpse into my life.

I grew up in downtown Toronto, that’s in Canada in case you were wondering. Some say it’s no place for a child to be raised but I happen to think I turned out just fine. I have two parents; my mom and dad. Well I did…my mom died last year. You can often find my dad (others call him Matt) at home, with a beer in his hand. Sometimes he cries and other times he yells. I’m not sure which I prefer. But whenever he starts to yell, I just reach for my secret and hold it in my hand until it stops hurting. Sometimes they last a few days, once up until a week but no one seemed to notice. I even managed to fool Miss. Honey and she is so observant I often tell her she should be a detective. Dad says it’s our little secret and then he usually cries and apologizes, I always forgive him.

“Will, have you started your project yet?”

“Not yet Miss. Honey but I’ll have it finished on time!”

“Great buddy, see you Monday.”

That was her again. I told you she was perfect right? So, there is this project that I have kind of not started. I have to present a short paragraph on “what is love” just in time for Valentine’s Day. The only catch…I don’t know what love is? When I asked Miss. Honey to explain it she simply said it is indescribable. Now I have nothing to write about. I’m pretty sure my mom used to love me but I don’t really remember her. With dad it’s all secrets and lies. That can’t be love. I guess I could just google it, then maybe Miss. Honey could add it to the definition wall; I know that would make her pleased.

On my walk home, which took a whole fifteen minutes, I met a man holding a sign saying “The most difficult thing to explain in life is the simplest truth called love.” I thought maybe the man, although dressed in rags and holed up pants, might be able to explain this concept of love to me. He looked at me and gave a slight grin, the only words he had for me were “the sign says it all son.” I didn’t find that very helpful but thanked him anyways and left still contemplating why he called me his son.

When I returned home it was one of those rare peaceful moments, to put it simply my Dad was not home. After throwing my bag on the filth covered floor I ran past my raggedy couch, my dusty table, and the stained rug. I tried and failed to ignore the rotting stench of leftovers. I all but closed my eyes when passing the growing, yucky tower of beer bottles. I can still imagine it all gone. I fiddled around in my pocket once again till my hand clasped the small folded paper in my pocket, my secret. I needed to remember to breath, sometimes I forget. Okay, I still have no answers for my project. I know that staying inside my room staring at the plain, molded walls won’t help me much either, I guess it’s time I hit the streets again.

Toronto is slightly busier than yesterday but I love the hum of the city. The clack of heels on the pavement, the soothing deep voices of men talking in fast motion over their phones. The briskness in other’s walks, I am never alone. More importantly it is never silent. I am standing right under the CN tower now and a woman with a lime green baby stroller continues to give me sideway glances. If I’m missing tomorrow you’ll know who to look for. She is starting to head my way, so I think I’ll make a run for it.

“Wait, are you lost?” I think the crazy lady with the curly hair is talking to me.

“No, but I am looking for something…do you think you could help me?”

“What exactly are you looking for?” She looks a little lost herself.

“Love.” She is laughing a light tinkling laugh; it’s how I imagine my mom would laugh.

“I’m sorry but that is something I can’t help you with, I’m married you see.” She is showing me a ring on her finger; it’s a nice one too.

“Perfect! Then you can tell me what love is like for someone who is married?” Now I’m a little embarrassed because she’s giving me that weird look adults sometimes give me.

“Well…love is like butterflies or cotton candy, light and beautiful. And you always want to spend time with them and most importantly you can never stay mad at them because they make you smile. I’m sorry; I’m a bit of a hopeless romantic.”

Now it was my turn to laugh, she wasn’t hopeless in love if she was married.

“Thank you that was very helpful, also your son is quite handsome”
She isn't laughing anymore.

“It’s a girl but thank you, it was very nice to meet you…I’m sorry but I didn’t catch your name.”

“Bye! Have a nice day.” My dad always told me not to give my name out to strangers.

I think I am finally getting somewhere with this project. I just need one more opinion to complete my story. If only I could…the door is open which must mean Dad’s home. Maybe he hasn’t had too much to drink yet. I’ll make a dash for my room. Already I can see that plan is not going to work as his eyes dart to me the minute I step into the room. Now here comes the rant about leaving without permission, it looks like I might get off easy this time. Nope I guess not because now he is stomping over towards me and his face has never been so red. Time to brace myself for impact.

I think after five minutes he collapses from exhaustion. I must pull myself off the floor and into the bathroom; there will be no tears tonight. A quick glance in the mirror and I can already tell these ones will last for a week, the bruises that is and nobody will know the difference.

Sure enough the bruises are deep purple, dark blue and putrid green on Monday. They are all mixed together to make one master piece that is becoming harder to hide. I have my story done and I am ready to present although I still feel like something is missing. I enter the light filled classroom that fills me with warmth and take a moment to observe. The walls are a soft yellow and Miss.Honey is behind her typical wooden desk with a polished red apple sitting on top. I see she has pure white roses, fragrant with an almost sickly sweet odour projecting from the front of the classroom and I contemplate who sent them to her. Instead I take my seat with my other classmates and try to focus on the presentations which were surely going to be the worst half an hour of my life.

I am exhausted from all this hiding; I can almost feel my eyes droop close with sleep. But I have to present next so I fight off the sleep. Standing in front of the class is harder than I thought; so many blank staring faces. I begin to flick the paper in my pocket to stay calm. I pull it out and smooth the soft creases and stare down at my mother’s face, my number one possession as my father burned all photographs when she passed on. I turn to face Miss. Honey’s confused face and I told her it hurts. I watch as her brow continues to furrow deeper. I lift my shirt just enough for the bruise to peek out and the horror that washes over her face makes small tears drip from my eyes. Now I feel like a baby but when I look back at Miss. Honey the love I can see on her face is so overwhelming that I forget to breathe. I get it now, this indescribable love that she once talked about. I also think that I just might actually have the slightest idea as to what love is. I could see it in Miss. Honey now and even in the weird man with hole filled pants and the crazy mom with the girl who looks like a boy. With warm, encompassing arms I felt safe again and I realized that the part of the story that was missing was mine.