The men walk by him though, no words spoken, as they carry on to find fun inside the Mela, leaving him there alone once more in a suit which shimmers in the sun and the solitude which finds him in Victoria Park, Smethwick.

Somewhere in that morning, an elderly mother, who loved her child so much, had helped him get dressed. She'd combed his hair, smoothing it down before placing his cap on his head — standing back a little to assess her work, before stepping back again to straighten it, with a smile of satisfaction, before finally brushing the shoulders of his jacket and sending him on his way.

No matter how much she had hoped for more than this for him, when he was a child, to have a career, to marry and have grandchildren, she knew deep down that this would always be the life which would find him and her of course. Knowing all that time that he would still be her little boy, whose hair she'd comb and hat she'd fix upon his head always and forever

Maybe none of that ever happened, and perhaps that friend will arrive at any moment to find him standing there in the park.

Or maybe that river called rejection, that river which always has run through him will continue to flow.

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