“You’re a long drink of water,” the sergeant said. “You keep your head low and you may just stay alive.”   

I smiled, more by rote and form than substance. The phrase, too often used, vindicated the need for something to hold up my head. Displeased with my spurt at sixteen, I was left with short cuffs and a matching attitude. Where Grandfather huffed, I growled. I was the tallest of my classmates and breathed in the world’s ills. The Rebellion had been struck a year earlier and my own revolt was close at hand.

Better to die of being too tall than of boredom.       

Feb/09