The
kid sitting in front of me wants to
play; he pops his
head up above the
seatback and makes a face. Although he is
playful his huge
eyes, so dark they seem to
draw in the light around them, are
sullen. His face is slender and his hair, cut such that it falls around his ears on the side and just above his eyebrows in the front, is black as a
raven. His face contains a certain
intensity that is usually reserved for those much older than four. His skin is a deep
olive.
After getting bored of me he awakens the man sitting next to him, who I can only assume to be his father, and converses breifly with him in spanish. Although I don't understand the words it sounds like he is asking a very little kid like question. The father responds and tries to fall back asleep, he sounds annoyed. He awakens his father several more times then gets bored of that and takes to resting his chin on the window sill and staring out at the scenery as it passes us by. His eyes become still, fixed on some point at infinity that he clearly can't see for the trees that border the highway, and he is lost in his imagination.
He snaps out of it and is on the move again as only a little kid could be in the cramped quarters of a Greyhound bus. He points at the reading light that I use to illuminate my page. I swivel it so it shines on him, then back to my page. He points at it again so I turn it off and then back on. He then points to his own such light which I turn on for him, he touches my hand and smiles as if to thank me; we have a moment of understanding despite any language barrier.
As I feel his warm little hand and see the smile on his face we can communicate. It is a kind of communication that is universal to all humans, a kind of communication that is based on first principles. Not a word was ever spoken between my friend and I on that four hour bus ride.