That Gerry, the name the others called him, was too joyful for his dignity. That he was quiet and given to days of rage when everything was dark. That he was the only student who ever told me I was wise the day we talked about spirits and how the earth was a holy mother. That he was grey and moustached, older than all the others. That his fierceness was a necessary force to live by. That he kept trying when the others failed. That he was an Objiway from somewhere north of here. That he loved the Jamaican woman in heels who showed her cleavage and said I'm not ashamed. That he laughed and said neither am I. That when I called the counsellor back all I had was scraps. That she told me he was a roomer in a place where no one knew him. That somewhere he had a sister no one could find. That he had tried twice before. That he had a small bundle of possessions and nowhere to send them. That when he went down to Scarborough Bluffs the spirit welcomed him. That the waters of Lake Ontario consumed him. That whatever wisdom I have is not enough. That his grey eyes follow me as I watch my classes for the watery arms that took him.
©Bruce Hunter, 2000 -- unauthorized duplication prohibited