I once met a young boy at the laundromat who wearing a too-small Spiderman suit. He didn’t know any English, and I don’t know any Spanish, so we just played with our faces while the whites dried. His young mother seemed appreciative that he was occupied. I helped him pull down a comic book he’d thrown high atop a washer. His sweet smile and lack of chatter warmed me to him.

I saw him again many months later the same laundry spot looking older, more manly with longer hair, maybe seven now. I tried to catch his eye. I even waved. But he didn’t remember me.