Infinity

That's the thing about this city.

With its melancholic star-studded sky, imperfect strangers rushing by with thoughts of collateral beauty and dreams of touching the horizon, and flickering neon lights illuminating the bustling streets. It was home, and yet home became less about four walls and a roof and more about a person. Home was the beautiful woman with the afro, a smile touching her maroon painted lips as she swept through the crowd, photographing Times Square. It was the man hurrying to catch the train at 6:04 PM, his one hand grasping a briefcase while the other hosted a half-eaten toasted bagel. It was the small girl with her dusky blonde hair falling out of pigtails, her strawberry ice cream cone dripping down her arm as she looked at the unexplored world above her with wonder. It was the man playing the guitar, rose-colored cheeks and dimpled smile breaking out as a passerby dropped a few pressed dollar bills into the hat by his beat up Converse sneakers. These strangers were blissfully unaware that the stars were aligning so that they could become a part of someone else’s life, even if it was for one moment gone in the blink of an eye. 

In this city, destiny crossed the paths of two lost souls, intertwining them into one. The story of us, and it all started with splashes of color. Blue like ocean waves nipping at warm sand, red like burning flames of fiery passion, yellow like the glowing sunshine shining down on blossoming sunflowers, brown like the soil we were built from, green like the roots we’ve never truly let go because they are our identity, our blood. All of the colors spilling together into a rainbow, a mosaic of broken pieces and hopeful eternity. 

Street Art. That’s what it was called. I never imagined street art to be so raw, so vulnerable. Some people called it graffiti but no, not you, you called it love and life and pain and became as beautiful as the art you drew. The first time I met you, you didn’t speak to me. You were too busy spritzing the most magnificent of purples on the wall, beads of sweat forming between your eyebrows as you concentrated. I almost didn’t notice you and you definitely didn’t see me- and just like that, we were strangers who believed our paths wouldn't cross again.

But they did. The second time I had a sandwich in my hand. Turkey, I think- or maybe it was chicken. I threw away the aluminum foil wrapping into the trash can, and you turned just for a second, but it was enough for our eyes to meet. Your eyes were just as beautiful as your paintings; warm hazel eyes, light enough to sparkle when the sunlight caught them. Splotches of color dotted your ragged white shirt, and instinctively you took a step closer. 

“What does it take to become an artist?” I smiled. They were the first words I had ever spoken to you, that I remember very clearly. You laughed, a sweet one like little bells. 

“An artist is everything that saves him and destroys him,” You replied, without missing a beat. Your voice was gravelly and deep, and yet nostalgic and silky at the same time. "Isaiah."

"Indigo," I introduced myself as well.

"Beautiful name for a beautiful soul." You moved away from the wall, wiping at the streaks of leftover paint on your face. "I'm happy my art could speak to you."

“Well, it’s beautiful,” I said, waving towards your work. “Whatever your muse is, whatever keeps you going. Absolutely beautiful. I couldn’t draw to save my life, but this is just breathtaking.”

“That’s the beauty of art. It’s flawed and imperfect.” You held out the spray can to me, a twinkle in your eyes- inviting and challenging at the same time. “Why not make your mark?”

I took it gingerly, wrapping my hands around the cool can and shaking my head. “No. I’ll ruin it. I can’t possibly...” I trailed off seeing the amusement traced in your features. 

You laughed, refusing to listen to me. “We won’t be here always, but this? This will. Let your light shine so it transforms into forever.”

And just like that, I was pressing the nozzle, watching as bright orange streaks joined the array of colors on the wall. I grinned gleefully, exuberant at the fact that I was a part of something bigger. Then I realized what I had done, and my mouth dropped open. 

“Did I ruin it?” I said. “Oh my God, I ruined it. Your artwork- you spent hours doing this- I am so sorry.”

You looked at me then, and then back at the wall. And you smiled, the type of smile that lights up your eyes. “Thank you for sharing your lovely world with me."

It was an unspoken arrangement. It happened gradually in the beginning- our gazes meeting as I ran to catch the bus. A little wave as I walked to the bookstore, with your slight head nod acknowledging me. And then I joined you again, and wordlessly you handed me a paintbrush. There was something about that moment- it felt like I was experiencing sparks like lightning and a motivating power like never before.

From that day on, we would meet randomly and continue to work on the painting. Sometimes it was meeting on a rainy Sunday, where the drizzle required us to wear hoods and carry soaked umbrellas while we worked. Sometimes it was a sunnier day, where we’d dress in oversized t-shirts and toss colors at each other, laughing at the beautiful mess we created. I didn’t know your occupation or your actual story, and you didn’t know mine. For some reason, it just worked better that way. Sometimes we talked about deep things- the things that inspired us. The things that hurt us. The things we were scared about, and the things we ran away from. Other times we were quiet, painting the things we couldn’t say in words. At the end of each day, we would separate and return to our own lives, own homes.

As weeks went by, I saw the wall continue to grow into a beautiful picture- it was mesmerizing to see what we had done. To think that one day my kids will see this and see someone that looks like them. Beautiful, Strong, Capable. And then one day it was done- the finishing touches had been placed, the artwork had been completed. I looked at the wall- at the face drawn with beautiful threaded black eyebrows and red lipstick bright against her shining dark skin, the brilliant pink and yellow hues in the background, the white speech bubbles and indigo lines. 

“What are we going to call it?” I asked. 

You looked at it for a few seconds, and then your eyes travelled to meet mine. “Infinity,” You said. 

“Infinity,” I repeated softly. You reached over and intertwined our hands, squeezing it. Like that we stayed, letting the day trickle into nighttime, letting a person become home, letting a moment become infinity. 

There were a few things you were good at. You were good at mixing colors, you were good at drawing out your inspiration, and you were good at letting your eyes speak a tale without your lips moving. But the one thing you weren’t good at was saying goodbye.

It was a Tuesday afternoon. The air was filled with thick summer heat, and I hadn’t visited our wall in a while. It wasn’t because I hadn’t wanted to; life had just gotten in the way, and time had shaped into a foe. I returned there, expecting to see your silhouette, but you weren’t there. There were no spray cans or stray paint brushes either, and the alleyway seemed to be filled with long-forgotten ghosts. I left that day but I came back a few times, returning to an empty street. Then finally one Saturday evening I came back to see someone standing there. It wasn't you. It was a stranger, dressed in a tailored black jacket, looking up at the wall art we had created.

Our eyes met and he smiled kindly. “There’s something about street art I truly love. Leon taught me that, at least.”

“Leon?” My ears perked up at the name as I regarded him curiously.

“The artist that worked on this mural,” he explained, beckoning towards the wall. “I saw this wall when it was empty, but he brought life to it. If you ever met him, he was amazing to watch.”

“The artist truly was one of a kind. I actually helped him,” I said, coming closer to stand next to him. “It was supposed to be something silly at first but we developed a routine. And then, well, I guess we created this.”

He raised his eyebrows. “So you’re his muse.”

“I wouldn’t say that,” I said. “Just another lost soul looking for something to bring meaning to.” I met his gaze and continued, “But sorry, you said his name was Leon? He told me it was Isaiah.” 

He chuckled, shaking his head. “Leon, Isaiah- I couldn’t quite tell you what his name was. He liked it better that way. But he’s a wandering soul. He stayed here but now that his art has been completed, he must’ve moved on to the next place.”

“What do you mean?” I said, turning to him. “Where’s Le- Isaiah?”

He lifted his shoulders slightly. “I couldn’t tell you. He never told me his next destination, just that this street was a temporary stay. I guess new city, new home.”

I realized the implication behind his words. “Did Isaiah live here?”

“He always told me home wasn’t about four walls and a roof, but about your surroundings. About the people you loved, the dreams you had.” He shook his head. “He was homeless, and yet he always said he had too many things to be grateful for. He would wake up every day with a bright smile and focus on his art. I thought he worked alone but I guess he found you trustworthy. Someone he could connect with."

I didn’t say anything. I was rendered speechless- frozen at what this man was saying. You had never told me about being homeless. Every time we said goodbye, I had assumed you were returning to where you were from. I hadn't assumed that this was home for you.

And every time, I didn’t think goodbye meant forever. 

“You have to have a number for him,” I said breathlessly. "Or some way to contact him. Please.”

He gave me a nostalgic smile. “I’m sorry. I don’t have anything that I can give to you to remember him by.”

“Do you think he’ll come back?” I said finally. 

“Maybe,” he said. “This city’s filled with hopefuls. You never know what - or who - you'll find here.”

We didn’t say anything after that but let a silence blanket us. You were on my mind the entire drive home, and all I could think of was the artwork we had created. The stars in your eyes.

I didn’t forget you, Isaiah. To this day, I can’t forget you. I still visit the building wall and look at the palette of colors that we had chosen. I remember the laughter and innocent touches, and I think of how we will always have something between us for the rest of the world to see, something that makes our story worth being told. Maybe one day we’ll meet again and see where the rest of our story can go in this city.

Not once did I know your real name. Your real identity. But to me, you were hope. You were strength. You were love, and everything this beautiful city embodied. You were Home. 

But mostly? You were Infinity.