Minutes after remembering that moment, a voice crackled through the faulty sound system: "Next stop: Jamaica." Once the announcement ended, Aaron saw his aunt stand up as she reached out a hand to him.
"It's our stop, sweetheart."
"Okay," Aaron replied.
With a hop, he stood up as they both headed toward the nearest door to exit the train. Once outside, they walked straight toward the escalators, heading for the building where they lived. As they emerged onto the surface, Aaron instinctively put his hand over his eyes to readjust to the sunlight.
It was an ordinary autumn day in New York City, in Queens, with clear skies and pleasant weather; not sunny enough to be hot, nor cold enough to need a heavy coat. Once his eyes adjusted to the light, Aaron fixed his gaze across Archer Avenue.
"Wow," he couldn't help but say as he scanned the entire place.
It was literally like traveling back in time. The street was filled with pedestrians and people rushing to get anywhere. He could even see a public bus passing down the street. Seeing the old shops was an emotional blow for Aaron; for him, it had been more than a decade since he last set foot anywhere near this street or New York itself.
Remembering the reason why he had returned to New York the last time instantly wiped the smile from his face. Thinking about his mother and the time he saw her in that tiny casket made him recall old regrets and how stupid he had been in the past—or rather, how stupid he would be in the future.
"That won't happen again," Aaron said in a low voice.
Saying those simple words was an oath for him; a promise he made to himself that this time he would do things differently, that he would not repeat the mistakes he had made.
"Aaron!" he heard his aunt shout. "What are you doing standing there? Hurry up and get over here."
"Coming!" Aaron shouted back.
After that, a child could be seen running as fast as his legs could carry him, while a woman waited exasperatedly on the other corner.
"This kid..." he heard his aunt mutter as soon as he was close enough. "What has you so distracted?" she asked him in an interrogative tone.
"Nothing," he replied quickly, slightly averting his gaze.
"Umm," was the only sound he heard from his aunt as she gave him an inquisitive look.
Deciding to quickly change the subject, Aaron chose to run directly toward their apartment, turning on 153rd St.
"Come on, auntie, don't fall behind!" Aaron shouted this time, once he saw he was a good distance away from her.
"You brat, making me run in these heels!" he heard his aunt shout back as she headed straight for him as fast as those heels allowed her to go.
It must be said that even in heels and walking in ways that defied the very logic of gravity, Paola looked as if she were in the middle of a catwalk, parading with elegance. Aaron couldn't help but notice the glances that the occasional passerby gave his aunt as she walked toward him. He also couldn't help but notice how most of those looks came from the male population, and it wasn't hard to notice how the women were throwing daggers with their eyes at her. Many of those men devouring his aunt with their eyes weren't alone; they were accompanied by their girlfriends or wives.
"That is the disadvantage of beauty," he remembered hearing his aunt say one day. There were always one or two altercations in which she was indirectly involved. More than once, a woman had appeared at her door, claiming she was a "husband-stealer" and telling her to stop seducing her man. They simply jumped to those conclusions because his aunt was a woman who usually wore fitted dresses and more makeup than most.
Even so, he saw his aunt heading toward him without caring in the slightest about the looks from the people around her. In her gaze, one could only see the self-assurance and confidence she possessed.
"Doesn't it bother you?" Aaron asked her.
"What would bother me?" she replied.
"The looks people are giving you all around us," he said, looking in every direction at the people watching them.
At that moment, he saw her turn her gaze in the direction he was looking, and he noticed how, under his aunt's stare, the people who crossed paths with her simply looked down or pretended to look away.
"It's just unimportant noise," his aunt said simply.
"Noise?" he asked with doubt in his voice, unable to understand her answer, wondering if it was a reference to something.
"Yes, noise," she reaffirmed. And seeing his expectant look, she decided to continue her explanation. "Did you see any of them meet my eyes when I looked at them?"
"No," he replied simply, shaking his head from side to side—which, by the way, was a mistake once he remembered his head was bandaged and a small sting erupted.
Noticing his discomfort, his aunt asked, "Are you okay?"
This time, instead of nodding, he replied, "Yes. What were you saying about people's looks?" He urged her to continue with the explanation.
With a hesitant look, she decided to go on. "People are the noise," she answered simply. Noting his look of confusion, she decided to give a deeper explanation. "It doesn't matter what the people around you do or say; you simply must keep your eyes forward, don't look back, and to hell with the rest."
Then, with an alarmed look, she added hurriedly: "Promise me you won't tell your mother I said a bad word in front of you."
He could see a trace of terror in her eyes at the thought of his mother. That brought back some not-so-pleasant memories. His mother had always been a kind, gentle, and loving person; but when she got angry, she was the most terrifying woman ever. It was like a 180-degree turn. And it wasn't just with him; even when his aunt did something wrong, his mom was the first to scold her like a little girl.
Memories flooded his mind, like the day she caught him smoking in his room. He would never forget her face or the twenty-minute lecture that followed about the evils of smoking at such a young age and how it affected his health. Even worse was her reaction when she found out where he got the cigarettes. Even through brick walls, you could hear her screaming at his aunt; he was certain the entire building probably heard it.
He couldn't hide the mischievous smile on his face. "What's in it for me?" he asked with innocent eyes.
He saw his aunt's brow furrow slightly. "One dollar," she said, as if that were the solution to the problem.
If he had been any other five-year-old, he probably would have accepted that deal. Too bad he wasn't just anyone.
"Ten," he responded with a clever smile.
Her brow furrowed even more. "Two," she countered.
"Eight," he simply replied.
"Five, final offer," his aunt said decisively.
"Deal," he said, knowing he couldn't get more than that.
"Since when is this little one so sharp?" he heard her mutter to herself. Then, deciding to change the subject, he heard her continue her explanation.
"What I'm trying to say is that you should never care about the rest or what they will say. The only thing that matters is that you do what makes you happy," she said in a solemn tone.
At those words, he couldn't help but fall into deep thought. Did I do things that made me happy? he asked himself. Financially, he had enough money for retirement thanks to a stable job and smart financial decisions. But was he truly happy? He reflected on how sad his previous life was: alone, bitter, and friendless. Perhaps one of the reasons he was back here was a gift from God or a way to atone for his mistakes.
"Thank you," he said to his aunt.
"And what was that for?" she asked, not knowing why he was thanking her.
"Nothing important," he told her, noticing the strange look she was giving him, as if he were an alien that had entered her nephew's mind.
"Who are you and what have you done with my cute nephew?" she asked in a half-joking tone.
"I'm the thirty-year-old version," he replied in a grave and serious voice.
At that response, his aunt's face went blank, her gears grinding to a halt as if she were suffering a short circuit.
"Hahaha!" He couldn't help but burst out laughing.
Her face reminded him of memes from the future; if only he had a phone right now.
"You little..." was all she could say after five seconds of silence. Then he saw her bite her tongue to stop herself from finishing the sentence.
"What were you saying?" he asked in the most innocent tone possible.
"Nothing, forget it," was the blunt reply.
They kept walking until his gaze landed on the park across from their building: Rufus King Park. A historic public park where he remembered spending every afternoon playing on the swings with the other local kids. But his eyes instinctively landed on one specific spot.
The basketball court.
As soon as he saw it, he spotted a group of young men in the middle of a streetball game. He saw a young man, no older than eighteen, dribbling toward the hoop while being blocked by another guy. Then it happened. The young man faked right to throw his opponent off balance, then suddenly spun the other way with a eurostep to face the basket. As soon as he broke free, he jumped for an easy layup to add two points for his team.
Aaron watched as the player was surrounded by teammates giving him high-fives while the other team prepared for a counterattack. For some strange reason, he felt an impulse to step onto those four lines. He felt the call of the ball, as if he were being drawn like a moth to a flame.
Subconsciously, Aaron took a step toward the court until he felt a hand grab the collar of his jacket.
"Where do you think you're going, young man?" Paola asked.
"I just want to watch the game, auntie, can we?" he asked while making "puppy eyes."
But his aunt, well-accustomed to that tactic, replied flatly: "No."
His mood dropped instantly. Noticing the change, his aunt added: "If you want, let's wait for your mother to see you, and then we'll see about coming back out for a bit."
Those words brought the smile back to his face.
"Okay," he replied, more cheerfully this time.
With renewed energy, he ran the rest of the way toward the lobby of their building.
"Come on, auntie, hurry!" he urged.
"I'm coming, I'm coming," she replied.
Once inside, he ran upstairs toward the apartment he shared with his mother. When he saw the old wooden door and the slightly rusted knob, he waited for his aunt to open it with her spare key. After she came up and unlocked the door, he stepped inside, his eyes scanning the entire place. His mind couldn't help but recall all the happy moments lived within these four walls; if only walls could talk.
With a wide smile, he couldn't help but say, "Home sweet home."
Author's thoughts
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