My First “Missing” Poster

The sun had exploded over a quiet blue sky. I remember the trimmed green grass, caterpillars and ladybugs on nibbled leaves. Lazy afternoons had left me restless as a child. I had the urge to be a part of something big; a movement so grand and large it gave goose bumps just thinking about it. My mother had placed peanut butter and jelly cookies in the jar colored with bright flowers. Pink lemonade with floating slices of lemon was in the icy pitcher. All of my neighborhood friends were beginning to run out of their homes like birds taking lift to the sound of footsteps; simple times coupled with beautiful days embraced me.

Yet, all I could dream about was murder.

Underneath a blanket of shade, amongst the sound of laughter I focused on the story I had written about Derrick just the night before. I was underneath my covers, my small breath warm and heavy, eyes shut tight. He told me of a young boy who had gone missing from his bedroom. The inflamed pictures revealed red and blue sirens, large men dressed in blue, the indescribable silence that came with unfolding a crumbled “missing persons” poster, the terrible sight of happy baby blue eyes looking back at you, and the sound of a desperate mother’s cry. I had witnessed the aftermath of an abduction through Derrick’s gentle voice.  I had felt the indescribable need to find a small boy who deserved to go home.

It was around this time when my reality didn’t match Derrick’s stories of a dark world laced in sunlight. The incidents of which he experienced: the abduction of children and the black hands which caused pain, were yet to be seen completely clear, though the golden youth found in his voice had set me free.

I was a baby detective on a mission. He was my partner.

           Together we could experience the impossible and catch the bad guy.

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