Mark D. Roberts
At Good Letters, after the sad shooting a few weeks ago, Vic Sizemore writes about children and memory:
Yesterday evening, Evan, my wife Liz, and I sat at the picnic table in our backyard near the woods. Despite the citronella candle, the mosquitos were thick, but the weather was so perfect we played out there anyway, swatting and waving as we rearranged tiles. Play was tight, jammed into the top right quarter for most of the game, none of us getting much for our words and no one willing to play a long word to break someone else out.
Then, at the end of the game, Evan pulled out a seven-letter word that earned him a quick sixty-two points. Liz and I made our plays, and the very next time, Evan traded out the blank tiles and created yet another seven-letter word, racking up seventy-eight points and soaring to the win.
After my writing time this morning, I ran over to the college to grab a couple of books from my office. I pulled a book off the shelf that I hadn’t opened in many years, to look for a passage that a friend’s Facebook post had me thinking about. In it I discovered a picture of Evan I didn’t even remember we had.
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