A person’s life purpose is nothing more than to rediscover, through the detours of art, or love, or passionate work, those one or two images in the presence of which his heart first opened. -Albert Camus
Find the boy. He still lives inside you. But he is dying,
crowded by cares. He needs that other boy that suddenly
shone bright beside you, who made you stand outside
of yourself, your heart opened to the presence of another:
Maybe I was nine. It was Sports Day in Springside,
Saskatchewan. People from all over the world were
there, Theodore, Jedburgh, Orcadia, Willowbrook.
I had some (was it five?) dimes in my Red Tag jeans,
money my mother gave me to spend at my discretion.
Fudgsicles were a convenient ten cents. I was happily
into the first of the day when I noticed a boy, barefoot,
patched, uncombed, his unscrubbed face was turned
toward me, watching. I watched back. Then walked
over and gave him a dime. He bought a Fudgsicle, then
came back and stood beside me. I reached in my pocket
and gave him the rest of my money because of the feeling
I got, upon seeing his face, after giving him that first
dime. We stood together behind the chicken-wire fence
watching a ball game—him, smiling, chin dripping
chocolate, me, weightless, careless, a little dangerous.