T.J. never had a pencil.
180 school days and not once did he come to class with a pencil.
Sometimes he had paper.
He was short, loved The Simpsons, The Laker’s, and Skittles.
I took candy away from him more than once.
He wrote about his dream house (on the beach), his future career (cartoon illustrator), and his worst fear (clowns). He rarely misspelled words.
When I think of him, he’s wearing a thick blue sweatshirt, with a hood. He must have worn other things, but that’s what I see.
He smiled most of the time. Called me “unfair” when I wouldn’t give him extra time for a test. His parents were divorced.
An eighth grader.
I haven’t thought about him in seven years.
Yesterday I saw his picture. He was grown up, muscular, still wearing blue.
But,
In my mind, it was the 13-year old boy
Blown up on the side of the road in a place I can’t pronounce.
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2 comments:
I like that. The myriad meanings behind blown up too. Nice job.
Sometimes I think about this too, especially when it relates to children (which is how you remember him). When I hear of a child that has died, I imagine my own children - the effort in raising them everyday, the struggles and little triumphs as they develop. To imagine all that can be wiped away suddenly is sobering.
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