The Chair

On the corner of a street near my school there is a little yellow house. This little yellow house has a porch. On the porch there is a simple wooden kitchen chair. Most mornings there is a man on the chair. He looks quite old, somewhat frail and from my distant observation he's lived a good life. He's African American and he always is wearing coveralls. When I pass him on my way from Starbucks to school he waves. I wave back.

I am so intrigued by this man. I want to know his story. I want to take a black and white picture of him sitting on his chair on his porch. I want to sit down with a glass of iced tea and watch the world go by from his chair on the porch, I want to learn from him, to see what he has to share with the world and leave with us once he's called home. I probably never will, and that's okay. I am busy collecting ideas for my someday to be written children's book, and this man and his porch just might be it.