Imagination was June’s only salvation. Natural optimism by itself was a costly figure. He had grown too old to appreciate the crooks of people’s smiles when they talked to him because now he could hear, and he had grown too intelligible to admire the beauty of the alphabet because now he was able to recognize the meaning behind the foul words etched into his desk. Instead, it was his playful immaturity that guided him, that caused him to focus on the path in front of him and merely wonder where the pebbles had gone once he kicked them.

            It was this ignorant bliss that dissuaded June’s attention from the brusque tone with which the baker addressed him. Distracted, June gazed at the fresh loaves of bread displayed on the counter in elegant wicker baskets, bread which he knew costed more than he could ever afford. The baker’s gruff cough brought him back to reality, and he quickly selected the most reasonable option: the finest scraps of the crusts, if the sir would please.

            Grasping his breakfast tightly in his hand, June skipped home along the cobblestones. Content, he stared up at the endless sky above him. Granny would be proud. Much to his past chagrin, he had dreaded venturing outside the house during daylight hours; but he had so courageously conquered his fears, this time going to town without hesitation. His feet danced back and forth as he waited at an intersection, horses and carriages passing by in an alacritous blur. He hummed quietly, the rest of the town seeming to come alive around him.

            A young girl seemed to recognize the tune and turned to him with curiosity. Releasing her mother’s hand, she drew closer, her eyes as wide as Jupiter. “My, that’s a wonderful song you’re singing,” she said, her voice low and melodious.

            June stopped.  Blushing, he mumbled a “thank you,” and hastily turned the other direction.

            The girl narrowed her eyes, displeased by his lack of response. She surveyed him with childlike scrutiny, evaluating him from head to toe. When it seemed June was too intimidated to resume the conversation, she proposed another question. “How old are ye’? I’m six.”

            “Seven,” June replied, timidly holding up the same amount of fingers.

            “Why are you wearing a dress?”

            June shifted uncomfortably in his spot, his hands fiddling with the petticoats of his favorite rose-colored dress. He met her gaze apprehensively. “I just like them. That’s all.”

            Again, the girl’s features contorted, her mouth coming down in a slight frown. She looked him up and down once more; and then, spotting an inconsistency, she pointed to the lace embroidery that decorated his hem. “It’s ripped.”

            Embarrassed, June quickly covered the hole with his hands, his bag of bread crusts falling to the ground with a dull thud. It was at this point that the girl’s mother had heard the conversation. She swatted the girl’s hand away from its accusatory position at June’s side, apologizing profusely for her daughter’s impudence. June graciously conceded, saying that there was no need to apologize: children had a tendency to say whatever came to mind. Averting his gaze, he leaped across the road, bounding across although it was still not clear.

            Panting, June reached the wide dirt path that marked the last trek towards home. Tripping on a stone, he lurched forward, his hands scraping against rock and pieces of bark. Granny would surely scold him for not being careful. What good was “the tattered boy with the tattered heart and tattered dress along the west side of the road?” He was to take better care of himself, or he would wind up back on the streets where she had found him.

How long ago was it that he had forgotten from where he had come in order to call her Granny? For how long had he been willing to deceive himself with satisfactory living and someone to love? He could not recall, but the tear in his dress only grew wider.

He left the door open on his return, but he was too desperate to care about his insolence. As soon as he had entered, he had rushed to Granny’s side. She was sitting in her chair like always, enjoying the warmth of the fire. Tears clung to June’s eyes as he relentlessly begged her to fix the dress. He would try better next time. He would sew the dress himself if he must; she would just have to teach him. Granny, Granny, would she please listen to him?

In his haste, June did not seem to notice that the fire had gone out; all that remained were ashes slightly steaming from the night before. Still, his granny’s eyes lay fixed on the fire, looking for something—looking for a life that had long past. June jerked his hand back, suddenly feeling the cool touch of her skin.

            It seemed that day imagination had left him too.