S. Richard

The Gift

It was a Wednesday afternoon, not that I carried a hone or calendar to know this, it was chili day – or at least a warm soup reddened with tomato and meat that resembled what I remember as chili. I knew because I stood in a line which nearly circled the building. I watched as the boy in front of me squeezed his eyes closed, as another gust of wind ran across his face. His beading eyes now facing mine to avoid the northwest winds, drawing my otherwise remiss attention. So much went unnoticed in those days.