Between The Lines There Are Spaces
In town I shop. There is a young man of twenty-two, twenty-three maybe. He is retarded: sweet like a child. He always says hello to me. He always blushes. He enriches my day. People like him are becoming rarer. Increasingly they are weeded out before they can grow. Is this evolution?
I know scientists, doctors, lawyers, teachers and artists. I have met the weird and the wonderful, the famous and the rich but this young man who stacks shelves in a small, corner shop is the most unique and interesting person I know. Most people don’t even see him.
