Blue Cotton Work Shirts Stitched Together for a Spring Dance
“When you walk across the stage in three weeks to receive your diplomas,” Principal Bradley said, “you will do so on a floor that Albert polished until it shone. You will sit in chairs he repaired. You will walk through doors he kept open.”
He looked directly at me.
“And some of you,” Bradley said softly, “will wear the very legacy of his labor.”
He turned the page in his folder, his movements slow and deliberate.
“I ask you now,” Bradley said, “to stand if Albert ever made your day in this school a little easier. Stand if you want to honor the man who kept this place running while we slept.”
For three seconds, the room was a photograph, frozen and still.
Then Marcus, the track captain, stood. His chair scraped against the wood floor with a sharp, loud bark. He did not look at Gary or the others; he kept his eyes on the stage, his hands at his sides.
A moment later, Sarah stood up from her chair. Then the girl in the peach silk dress, the one who had whispered when I first entered, stood up too. She smoothed the skirt of her expensive dress and looked at me, her eyes quiet and respectful.
