Where would we be without that boy?

When was it that he

From so far away

Latched onto our hearts.

So simple,

So quiet

So perfect in his dress, his play,

Even in his speech,

When he so rarely did.

The boy that always seemed to be taking notes on the world.

Not like a disgruntled teacher,

Or health inspector,

Not even as a student listening to a lecture,

Just writing down on his pad of paper, interesting things he saw and heard.

He wrote not of formulas

Or bullies

Or girls,

Or of anything in particular.

He simply wrote.

And later in the day, when sitting in bed,

Soft candlelight flickering on his face

He would conjoin all the words and phrases

And make soft music,

His instrument his pen,

And when he was satisfied,

As he usually was with most things,

He would walk four blocks on Rigby Street,

To a small bookshop,

One of the only in town, his least favorite

For it was filled with biographies and encyclopedias and required reading for schoolwork

And he would take out his most recent notepad,

And drop it on the floor,

Then leave.