So Much More Than More Than Plain

I ruffled his hair soft and unruly like goose down feathers, like baby goose feathers the ones that will molt off eventually. And when I withdrew the hand I wondered at the appropriateness of the gesture, but the little body on the cot the little eyes hesitant to raise to mine made necessary a different approach. They didn't have a parent's number to reach, just a court-appointed guardian who was not at home and I hated how this cycle of life can start out already, eight years old. A big puffy winter jacket in the back and dirty jeans and me. "No one is here to judge you." The eyes look up. "So young and already to know how cutting life can be." He nods. Looks away. A shot of life in a hungry vein.

Wanting to derail that train. Same as same. He will hate authority because authority will hate him will know his name will know that life. Tired of all those friends listening at your door mouths full of their picture of you before the brushes have even had a chance to touch canvas. And they sacrifice their lives. The badge is not the part that is sacred. And the brotherhood extends.

He is so little when we roll him out of the squad and into room nine the doc is already in there waiting for us and he closes the door after we've unloaded him and wheel the cot back out. And I heard, later, that he told the truth. And you left a little piece of yourself in there in that room just like you did in the back with me and sitting at the computer desk right before you passed out. And you leave these little pieces behind for good or bad and they are the markers for these moments, the points at which you move on. You replace those little pieces with bigger ones that are stronger for the wear and those ruffled feathers molt and you become something amazing: what you were meant to be.