This kid Eddie

had been in my homeroom class since the beginning

(because he was a "D" and I was a "C")

and now we were coming to the end

the beginning of the last Spring before high school

graduation



There he was, sitting next to me again,

big lumbering dude, fresh grey cords not falling down,

striped green dress shirt tucked in, belted in.

Wide, open collar. Clean, white leather hi-tops

laced loose, tongues pushed out, the way kids used wear them.



He'd become a dresser. But with his sand-wisp

hair and close-set, rabbit blue eyes, his pink, slick, fat

lower lip, his runny nose, and high, halting, impeded speech:



he was the same sloppy, happy-seeming, gentle kid from the second grade.



He carried himself well.



I suspect things were not so great for him at home.

He had his dignity.



That homeroom morning in early Spring,

Eddie made a singsong remark

in that curious high pitch of his

about hearing the birdies sing



This morning,

13 years later,

walking outside with my dog,

hearing them birdies sing again,

I hope he's still out there.



Why am I crying?