Daniel Raimer

Honorable Mention: Poetry

“Beyond These Walls” 
by Daniel Raimer  
11th grade, Morristown Beard School

—

Walk. Walk. Walk. My eyes burned bullets into the patches of stark white hair that blocked my view of the street ahead. Light after light, car after car, he hadn’t moved an inch. 

“You gonna cross?” I asked, wondering how long he and his hefty mahogany cane had been lingering there. With what seemed like extraneous effort, the man turned his neck so that he could face me. 

 “Young man,” he began. He sounded tired, or like he hadn’t spoken in a long time. I’d only known the back of his head up until this point, but as he turned, I was able to make out the features of his face: a mole on the right side of his upper lip, bags under his eyes big enough to hold groceries, and ocean-blue eyes that seemed to have stories to tell. The old man smiled and opened his mouth to speak, revealing pearly white teeth that glinted in the sun. Most old people I had met had few yellowing teeth or none left at all. Before he could respond, his mouth quickly closed, and he turned away from me. Now facing the street, he spoke with a longing tone. “It’s beautiful out today, isn’t it?” I nodded my head, although he couldn’t see me. Why couldn’t he just cross already? 

“Do you want some help?” I asked, hoping he would say no. Although I was not in the mood to walk an old man across a busy street this morning, I couldn’t bear to see him standing here any longer. As if on cue, a herd of middle-aged men in dark-colored business suits and salt-and-pepper hair patted him on the shoulder in passing, thanking him for his service. It was then that I noticed the tattered blue hat that he gripped in his other hand, which read “NAVY” in bright golden letters. “Here, how about we—” I attempted to grab his arm and hold his weight, moving his hefty cane into his other hand. Before he could object, I felt the heat of exhaust and saw only a red blur as our first step was interrupted by a speeding car. My breath quickened and I instinctively pulled him back off of the street. Woah.

“Let’s take a minute here,” I responded, still in shock from almost being clipped by that car. I looked around, my mind running through things to say or ways to help. To my right was the crosswalk button, which I clicked repeatedly. Wait. Wait. Wait. I was done waiting. The old man next to me could sense my discontent as I inhaled sharply and exhaled slowly, letting the hot air escape my lungs through my nose. The man turned toward me again, examining my own features. A hint of a smile tugged at his lips.

“I think we’ve got the same eyes,” he stated. Yes, I thought. Eyes that could tell a million stories if you looked close enough. I wondered what stories he would be able to tell me, if he could even remember. I wondered what pains he had endured, what love he had experienced, how he had ended up on this street today. In the distance, cars honked violently, interrupting my deep thoughts. 

“You’ve been waiting here a while?” I asked, genuinely curious. This street was no place for the life of an old man of his stature to be at the hands of inconsiderate drivers rushing down a city street. Before he could answer, I heard the bright PING of the crosswalk signal. The word “walk” began to echo loudly in the street. As I grabbed his arm, he stopped me as if he had just realized he’d left something important behind.

“I think we’ve got the same eyes,” he said again, but his tone was urgent this time. I think so, too. I so desperately wanted to respond, to tell him that we do have the same eyes and give him a reason as to why. I so eagerly wanted to share with him my newest accomplishments—how I aced my math exam on inverse logarithms, how I landed the role in Bonnie and Clyde that I couldn’t wait for him to see, how I finally experienced that indescribable surge of pure exhilaration when I beat my own best time in the hundred-meter butterfly race this past swim season—because he seemed like a man who would care. I craved to hear of his adventures from when he was my age and the life lessons he’d learned through decades of adaptability and resilience in the Navy. I so desperately wanted him to remember all of himself so that he could see me once again. Instead, I just gave him a melancholic smile and held his hand in mine.

“Let’s walk. C’mon, Grandpa.”