I stand up to leave the room on this first day of spring and I glance over at him; this scrawny, angry scrap of a boy. Thinks he’s tough. I know where he is. I know what he’s rolling with. He’s not tough, but the show is everything. It’s a hot mess.
As I look at him and walk by his table, he throws me the middle finger. That’s all he has to offer in this great big, vast, massive, beautiful and complicated world. That’s all he has.
Silly thing. If he thinks he can move me with that, he does not know what I am rolling with. I know where I am. I’m made of far sterner and gentler stuff. A character out of a lowly chapter in a Dickens novel; this poor boy.
I look at him and chuckle.
‘God bless you, T…’ I move out of the room while I feel him watching…
690 Saint Paul 