He stands over the old man, still cooling off of the hot
coals he had recently been toasted upon: Now that he’s done, the young man says, I
might as well tell him.
He tells him of the many mistakes he has made, of the many more he has yet to make, of the many, many more he will never, if ever, make.
He tells him of the many mistakes he has made, of the many more he has yet to make, of the many, many more he will never, if ever, make.
The old man rolls over to his side, scraping his crisping skin against the cotton, smiling,
saying atta boy, atta boy and all.
