I was at my favorite gala last night where Mr. Simon softly sang this for us.
He's small and slightly frail seeming, which under the circumstances, I think we're all feeling just a little bit right now.
And then I dashed downtown to meet Youngest who had submitted his senior project for honors.
We sat around the gritty, scary, filthy train station waiting - for either the email or the train.
The train came first and we boarded with all the other zombies at that late hour.
He was so tired I could see his paint and ink covered hands shaking and he was gritty and a little filthy too.
Through the long tunnel (no cell service) and out to the darkness we went.
The train was a local and there had been a baseball game. Loud drunk (mostly) men boarded.
Finally, the email.
His work had been chosen to be honored.
He'd exhibit in the senior show.
I was so proud - elated.
He couldn't be. Didn't have it in him. Too exhausted.
And then he started noticing whom among his classmates had not been chosen. He had a small moment of sorrow for each of them.
What about Peter?!
His pieces were amazing, Mom, let me tell you about them.
We spent a great deal of that long ride with him telling me about each person not picked and their work, and how significant their efforts were and how unfair it seemed to be.
I'll celebrate tomorrow, he said, and I realized what kind of man he is.