He likes telling stories. I like listening to his stories. In his stories, I learn a lot of truths about myself. Some of which would have been buried with me had he not reminded me of their presence.
The first time I spoke with him was entirely coincidental. Well, actually all the times I have spoken with him are coincidental. Somehow, we remember each other even in the coincidental, haphazard way that we meet.
The last time I met him, I was going through a pretty rough patch. “Don’t give up,” he said. And that was the most important thing I’d heard said to me then. In a way, it is almost as if he understands me better than I do myself.
It’s been a year. If I see him now, I want to tell him that I’ve found a point again. I want to tell him I’m really pursuing my further studies in speech therapy. I want him to be proud of me.
And they call him “boss”.