He was gone before he even got here.
Growing up, our house was filled with scraps of paper. Notes from people, newspaper clippings, ideas jotted on the backs of envelopes. An ephemera house. Stuck in between the pages of books, like little truth or fiction bonuses – notes of the day, newspaper clippings, bookmarks made by preschoolers, lists of all kinds.
I remember finding a faded newspaper clipping — pictures of a beautiful baby boy, curly haired, smiling, adorable, one frame after another like those from a photo booth. I handed it to my mother and asked, “Who was this?”
She began to cry.
Tears came, a quick brief steady stream and she made no sound.
Then, some moments later, my mother said, “That’s Little Lindy.”
Weird how some stuff sticks with you, isn’t it… that was probably 50 years ago.
