"Psychological Recovery ... Six months"

Yet another writing prompt has stole my attention. The challenge today is to write something involving the line "the chest of childhood." Here goes.

He has an air about him that suggested he was internally happy. Though my life has not been a horrible one, I cannot deny that I have rarely seen this raw vision of happiness. I observed him, loved him for his ease-like smile. Too many times have I witnessed my reflection frowning at what it sees. The longing to be like him grew within me. I began to follow him.
Every day he took the same route, which involved purchasing a cup of decaf mocha coffee, grande sized; consuming an egg sandwich, super sized; resting on a bench, child sized; and reading an off-brand newspaper, business sized. He would then walk to a colorful building, lined in sky blue, grinning as he took the ride of the spinning door rather than entering the conventional door right next to it.
I never followed him into this building. I was too afraid that he would spot me and his smile would fade. What would I be without my inspiration remaining prominent? I needed to see this smile. I dreamed of it, longed for it, craved it when he was not there. He would then exit the building at 6:05 every night, check his watch, purchase another cup of coffee - only this time it would be a lite vanilla latte, and walk to his apartment - the walls full of neon-colored graffiti, conveying messages such as "Express yourself" and "The world is your oyster." What must it be like to surround yourself with such positive life, such vivacity? What passion is he filled with?
Then it happened.
He went about his usual day: coffee, egg, bench, read, walk to building. It was during this walk that the most unthinkable happened. He took one step to the right, rather than forward. One single step, to avoid a newly formed pothole before him. An approaching Buick did not expect this long stride toward the driver's direction. The car swerved, the man did not take notice, and the bones met the hood of the vehicle. Unable to react, I stood and observed his fall. The blood did not provoke any movement of my muscles. I was aghast, and therefore paralyzed as I gaped at my idol. I could see enough from where I stood. Death was nothing new in my life; in fact, it was expected. Because of this, I was able to stare with undisturbed eyes as I took note of his smile still present, his chest of childhood bearing a happy heart proudly, and his mind the purest, though simplest, I have had the opportunity to witness.
It has been six months, and this smile, his smile, is now carried on my face every day as I drink my coffee, eat my egg sandwich, sit on a small bench, read my newspaper, and walk into a colorful building, childishly spinning as I enter.