|
distilled |
|
mr. afrotc Every Thursday Mr. AFROTC, freshly shaven, showered and shiny-shiny shoed in his blue uniform, holds the door for me on the way into the math building and every Thursday I am reminded of the importance of timing and luck as he steps aside and I nod a polite thanks. Today he is wearing cammies and combat boots and I sense the change in his demeanor that the uniform creates. His steps are steady and sure, perhaps his head held a bit higher, making him stand out more than usual in the crowd of jeans and sweaters. I look him in the eye as I pass, just long enough to see see the nineteen year old beneath it all, baby faced yet full of the fight and fire of youth. He meets my gaze at last--I allow my eyes to rest too long perhaps, or he recognizes me finally after these many weeks. The potential in the moment passes as I hit the stairs in stride and we part, wordless still. Conversation waits until another Thursday. |
|
<!-- thought, not spoken. --> |