By Ethan Phan II
He walked by me a few days ago. Moving his arms like a red playground swing on the Boston concrete, he was eyeing the city around him as if it was his first time, as if gray buildings and air pollution were the most amazing sights one could see. I quickly walked past the man without blinking an eye, but, after a moment, I sprinted back to him. Blocking his line of motion, I reached my hand out to shake his. He raised his five fingers, plump and short like bagged baby carrots. His skin glowed the shade of orange summer evenings. From his face, both timeless and untouched by time, a smile more contagious than a chicken-soup cold flooded his cheeks.
“Hi, I’m Childhood.”
