He was late for school.
But he wasn’t hurrying.
Mohawks can’t be hurried.
Each strand of the boy’s hair stood perfectly upright, creating a razor’s edge. He looked to be about nine years old, and I had to wonder, was someone helping this little rooster with his comb or had he mastered the art of gel at a young age?
As he neared, I stopped studying him and glanced away. He was wearing one sneaker.
Just one.
On his other foot was a white tube sock. He carried nothing in his hands, no backpack slung over his shoulders. I wanted to ask, but what was there to say? Excuse me, you’re missing a shoe. Sometimes my husband accuses me of stating the obvious as if it were profound, so I remained silent as I passed the boy.
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