(guest post by duane scott)
He’s not a tall boy, I notice, and so thin.
Almost sickly. His arms look like a boy half his age.
We’re in Canada at a boy’s retreat and my heart goes out to him so I look him square with empathy because I’m ready to hear his story, whatever it might be. Because there is healing in the telling, in the opening of one’s heart and mouth to give voice to the fears residing there.
Fear exposed is fear crippled, so he opened his mouth and began.
“It started a year ago… and it nearly ended one night in the emergency room five months after.”
Twenty boys sit quiet, listening.
“I have a twin brother. He’s the popular one. He’s more accomplished. Girls liked him better. I think my parents did too. And I hated him for it.” …
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