I was looking for Trent a pair of khakis, he has to wear them at school. Trent is not what you would call careful with his clothes. He is rough and rude towards them. Consequently, he gets his khakis from the thrift store. He doesn’t care. A long shopping adventure for him is 4 minutes, unless we are in the hunting/fishing store. Then all bets are off.
I was quickly making my way down the rack, I know by feel what fabrics his 16-year-old self will tolerate, when I ran up against this older gentleman. I smiled and said, “Hello.” I am a friendly shopper. He offered that he was finished looking where I needed to look next, to go ahead, that he was just trying to decide. I mentioned something about looking for some khakis for my little boy. He tilted his head toward the rack and asked, “How little is he?”
“Bout your size, he weighs about 200, maybe 210.”
He started to smile and snicker, “It might be time to drop that little, mam.”
“Yes, sir, I guess it is,” I grinned back.
There is nothing little about my blue-eyed boy, not his wit or talent or love for anything living. Not the size of his world or his hunger to wander all about it. Just the time I have to hold him here.