Mixtape

Golden- Fall Out Boy

A Silent Prayer for a Baby Boy

He walked the streets of Harlem, Massachusetts with his head down, hands in his pockets, and hat pulled down over his eyes. He could be mistaken for a man walking home from a late shift at the office, or a drug dealer sneaking off to that night's bargain. In reality, he was simply a man.

He was a man with a lot left behind him. A broken childhood, a reclaimed home, an alcoholic brother, a messy divorce, and children he'll never see again. Believe it or not, this man was no older than 32 and a half.

He became a prowler of these city streets shortly after he lost the custody battle for his little girl and boy. His ex-wife he could do without, but his kids? His precious children? The little tykes he'd held in his arms until they could walk on their own, spoon-fed until they could eat solid foods, and tucked into bed at night so that they'd never have nightmares? Without them, he was lost. Without them, he had nothing and deserved nothing.

Of course, he didn't actually have nothing. He had a high-paying job he could've killed to have (but luckily did not have to). He was, by most standards, a rich man. He had a shiny, fancy car that his ex-wife did not like, a big, beautiful house with a well-tended garden that his ex-wife had not wanted to live in, and a young, sweet, gorgeous cleaning lady his ex-wife had despised with a passion. His ex-wife never had any real reason to hate the way they had lived, but she had, so she left. That was how it felt to him.

On the outside, his life was golden-plated. He was an intelligent businessman and well-respected scholar, so far up on the corporate ladder he had enemies he had never intended to make. He hadn't even intended to be so successful. If he had had a choice in the beginning, he would be living on the countryside with his wife and kids, simply and safely. He wouldn't be so consumed in his work to the extent that he barely came home for dinner. He wouldn't be so caught up in his business that he'd forget to say "I love you" to his family two weeks in a row. He wouldn't be where he was now. On the streets of romantically-lit Harlem, with all his gold and all his riches, golden-plated and completely alone.

As he walked, he watched the houses around him, some lit, some dark. There were families in there. Friends, grandparents, lovers, and children. Children like his own.

He found his feet stopping on the sidewalk, and his eyes watching the large, curtained living room window of a tall, thin house. The window was brightly lit, and through the curtain he could see the silhouettes of the people inside, moving about.

There was a mother.

There was a father.

There was a little girl of maybe six, being picked up by her father and spun around, their joyous laughter floating out from the house into his ears.

There was a baby boy being cradled in his mother's arms, cooing and giggling, and being kissed on the forehead by first his father then his big sister.

He had to turn away and keep walking. For a brief second, he wondered if he had just hallucinated that entire scene, but most of his heart was hoping he hadn't. That was so beautiful, what had happened in there. It was pure, and unbroken, and what his family could've been.

He thought about that baby boy. He thought about that mother holding him. He thought about how, if he met those two on the street, the mother would discreetly cradle her baby closer to her in suspicious of a stranger. He was a stranger to them, and most of all a strange, strange man.

He thought of how that was such a wise thing to do. Shield your children, mothers, he thought. Raise them to stay away from me and this thing I've become.

He said a silent prayer that that baby boy wouldn't grow up to be like the man he became.