Navigating Early

The next day was filled with boys, boxes, and bulletin boards. Suitcases, books, and pillows. And everywhere there were moms giving bosomy hugs and tear-filled kisses. I spent most of the day in the library, wandering from shelf to shelf, breathing in the familiar smell of books and wood polish and India ink. It felt good to be closed in among the stacks, which didn’t pitch and sway. They were solid and stable. Maybe that’s how cows feel when they come into the barn after a day in the open field.
The librarian introduced herself in a quiet, librarianly manner, saying her name was Miss B. She smiled and said it was short for Bookworm. I didn’t say much, so she gave me a quick tour of the library, showing me the fiction section and resource books, and she got particularly excited at the poetry collection. When I didn’t match her level of enthusiasm for Longfellow and Hopkins, she just smiled, encouraged me to have a look around, and returned to her card catalog. I wandered around the stacks until I found the National Geographic magazines. Standing in front of those bright yellow spines all lined up in numerical order, it felt, for a moment, like I had a place, a tiny spot where I belonged.
Then the door was flung open and two boys poked their heads in. Glancing around, they apparently didn’t find who or what they were looking for and left.
There had been no opportunity for introductions, but even if there had, I wasn’t sure what I would have said. ‘Hi, my name is Jack. I’m from Kansas and I wish I was still there.’ Still, it would have been nice to have had at least a couple of names to put with those faces. There was a large trophy case on the far wall of the library. Maybe some of those boys’ pictures will be in there, I thought.
The case was full of trophies and plaques from years of Morton Hill Academy victories. Basketball, football, track and field. Mixed in were pictures of young men in their team uniforms, smiling with the joy of winning and standing with arms over each other’s shoulders in a show of camaraderie. I studied the faces-ripe, ruddy, youthful, as if they were faces from history. That was pretty much what they were, as the dates stretched all the way back to the late 1800s.
As I walked the length of the trophy case, the faces spanned the years, one blurring into the next. Then one stood out.
An older boy stood in a picture all his own. His hair was slicked back, and he had a strong, handsome face. Written at the bottom in white ink were the words Morton Hill All-Team Captain, Rowing and Football, Class of 1943. The picture rested against a jersey with the player’s name and number on the back: FISH-67. But it wasn’t the jersey or the trophy that held my attention. It was his face. His smile. He smiled as if he held life in that championship cup and he could drink from it whenever he liked. He smiled as if that victorious moment would last forever.
Then I noticed my own reflection in the glass. My face was different. Not just because it was younger. Not just because I wasn’t smiling. But because the past summer had taught me a lesson that, from the looks of it, the all-team captain had yet to learn: life can’t be held in a cup, and nothing lasts forever. Suddenly, I felt sorry for Number 67 and all he didn’t know.