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Cerebral Contents: Update for 05.13.08: Backsliding by Cynthia Ruth Lewis 05.05.08: Five Feet and Building by Joel Van Noord Grocery Aisle by Richard Lighthouse Cross the Road by Ashok Niyogi 04.29.08: The Modern Covenant by Daniel E. Wilcox Death by Onions by Michael Frissore 04.21.08: Future's Children by Kimberly Raiser Identity Theft by George Anderson A Great Deal of Money by Justin Hyde 04.14.08: Mr. Papaya and Dale by Eric Suhem California by Caroline Imreibe Aftermath of Vehement Argument #1,068 by Cynthia Ruth Lewis Trip-Hammer Vitality by Lisa Nickerson 04.07.08: The Florence of Basel, or Why Readers of Nietzsche Need to Read Burckhardt by Jeff Crouch Friends of the Poet by Sean C. Bowen Picture Perfect by Leah Baldwin 03.24.08: Staring Down a White-Tailed Doe by Aleathia Drehmer 03.17.08: The Hairbrush by Vernard Kennedy Dog Days of Winter by Niall Berkeley Poem From My Grave by Michael Lee Johnson Mashed Potatoes and Hamburgers by Matt Finney 03.10.08: Hard Work by Luis Cuauhtemoc Berriozabal Jetty Cake Pigs by J.D. Nelson |
A Name and a Smile by Mike Blake I saw a name I hadn't seen or heard in years printed on a passing truck,
and though I didn't see the face behind the wheel, I saw a certain, friendly
smile from years before, going back some time to my early school days,
a skinny, scruffy looking figure attached to that smile. That name put
me back at the old brick elementary school, with the kickball, tag, racing
and wrassling out in the fenced-in yard (a yard that seemed like a whole
lot of territory then). I was never particularly friendly with that kid; he had his own group
of pals; yet we always had a smile for each other, as if that was all
we needed for understanding. He was a likable kid and always seemed happy
in his surroundings, a kid meant for the easygoing, small town way of
life. He wasn't ambitious or a scholar; he knew he was just putting in
his time at school. He knew what he was going to do for a living before
he graduated high school, and that was to work in and eventually take
over the old man's construction business. He wouldn't even have to change
the name on the truck. And yet that name had taken me back to a time before we had any thoughts of making a living, when we all did the same thing in passing our days, with just our names and our fresh selves to offer. ______________________________________ |
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