The voice, much deeper now, sure, seemed so familiar.
I knew it. I hadn’t heard it in over 40 years, but I felt it, unmistakable.
My heart clenched, hard and sudden.
That voice — deeper now, but still his — felt like a door creaking open in a hallway I thought I’d sealed shut.
And as I sat there, heading toward my son’s funeral, I realized fate had just flown back into my life, wearing his own pair of golden wings attached to his lapel.
In an instant, I was no longer 63.
I was 23, standing at the front of a crumbling classroom in Detroit, trying to teach Shakespeare to teenagers who had seen more violence than verse.
Most looked at me like I was someone passing through.
Most of them had already learned that adults leave, that promises are cheap, and that school was nothing more than a holding cell between fights and home.
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