Jenny Pan

A street performer is stationed in the courtyard of the town centre. I watch this man walk down the uneven stone roads every morning before sunrise. He carries a black worn-out suitcase with a few colourful strands of ribbon hanging messily from the sides. His face would be stern and grim, apparent with wrinkles and prominent smile lines. Slim, cold, skeleton fingers hang stiffly beside the dusty rigid suit. When he performs, he wears a mask of charm and cheer. I’ve seen him perform before. On sunny days, children swarm him like flies and the smell of ice cream sticks in the sweet air. On those rainy days, water drenches his coat and his feathered grey hair drips wet. 

After many years, after our little home town became an urban apartment complex, the man stopped coming. The children he entertained grew up and invested their attention on cell phones and social media. Nobody expected him; nobody missed him; nobody needed him. 

He was nobody.