His name was Patrick and he smelled of bacon and…something else; I could never quite put a finger on it. We attended Dayspring Tabernacle daycare together. He had a perpetual crust of snot on his upper lip, even though Miss Vicky and Miss Lucy were ALWAYS tugging at him with a tissue—they rubbed the poor kid’s nose as raw as a Saharan sunburn from Kleenex friction.
His shirt was always a little too tight, always had a couple of stains; his hair was never combed and he always had sleepy-dust in the corners of his eyes. He played a little too rough, and God love him, he was the ANGRIEST child I had ever encountered. When the teachers tried to discipline him, he’d wad himself into a rage knot then sprawl into a purple-faced spread eagle, every tendon and vein protruding to showcase his fury. He would scream until he was hoarse and try to bite and kick at whoever attempted to hold him down. It was a spectacle fascinating and terrifying to watch.
Once he finally exhausted himself, he’d be panting in the corner; slumped, sweating, and staring out from his shameful exile, and we’d all be chewing our snacks slowly, eyeballing him from the other side of the room, keeping a safe distance between ourselves and trouble that always seemed to follow this little boy who smelled like breakfast. AND CIGARETTES. That’s what it was—the high note of his scent was something akin to an old Marlboro Red. I didn’t realize it until today as I was passing by a BBQ joint at DFW which must be a stone’s throw from a smoking lounge near the American terminal.
That mixture of aromas threw me back to that sandy playground where monkey bars and 55-gallon drums lined our paradise, and tormented Patrick, the kid who couldn’t keep his shirt tucked in or clean, or his hair from cowlickin’ every which way, or his temper under control when he…“colored outside the lines.”
And I couldn’t help thinking about this little boy from decades ago, how if I’d known then what I *think* I know now, he could’ve been a lot happier. Maybe he wouldn’t have been so angry if I’d let him play with my Hot Wheels, if I’d shared my Little Debbie with him. He’d have been happier if we’d let him inside the circle on the carpet instead of leaving him alone in the corner.
And that has stayed with me all day. If I’d been a better friend to him, I might know where he is today instead of recalling a cholesterol-scented memory with a whiff of nicotine regret.
Please be kind. Find it in your heart to ALWAYS be kind. Just because I’m not aware of the entirety of the situation, it doesn’t excuse me from being kind. I’m asking you to accept the same responsibility. Love y’all.