the routine and the age gap

It's already been a week into the new school year. I've grown accustomed to the routine of my routine. I've come to know the faces of all eight drivers who drive the 마을 13 bus. I know whether or not that bus will catch the left turn signal. I know that when I walk out of the subway, a crowd of people rushing past me means that I have time to catch the green light at the crosswalk. It seems mundane to have memorized such a schedule, but the damn pigeons crowding the marketplace located right before my school makes every morning dangerously exciting.

Some times, when I'm late, I'll see this one particular boy on the bus. The thing that catches your eye about this little tyke is his briefcase. The first time I saw him was in the summer. He looked like a tiny Harry Potter (but then again, most little boys in Corea look like a tiny Harry Potter), sans cloak and wand. He wore a light blue, short-sleeved, collared shirt with navy blue shorts, white knee socks and brown shoes that my grandfather would've worn. His blue and red Transformers backpack was square and rested neatly on his shoulders. But the crowning glory of this little getup was definitely his briefcase.

Every time I see him, I want to ask what could possibly be in the briefcase of an eight-year-old. Or why even an eight-year-old has a briefcase for that matter. I often stare at the brown leather and gold catchings and wonder who gave it to him and whether or not he actually likes carrying it around. Perhaps some day I'll summon enough courage to ask the boy.

I was a little late today and saw briefcase boy on the bus. It hit me how much he had grown over the past few months. He'd gotten a bit taller, but his briefcase hadn't. Just the way I've grown but my students don't. The incoming first grade class looked younger than ever. The age gap just keeps on growing as I go on about my routine. I find myself in a dichotomy as my inner Peter Pan desperately tries to fly back into the past where there was meaning and truth in every sound, in every cloud and in every romp in the sand. Yet some version of my future self keeps bugging me to move forward. Forward to reality. Forward to stability. Forward to a different kind of truth.

I'm stuck in this middle, this kind of vortex that sucks you in and makes you comfortable. And everyone seems to be worried about it except me.