“Childhood and youth are ends in themselves, not stages.”

~Friedrich Nietzsche

A COMING FROM AFAR, Memphis (April, 1967)

Young Michael had no idea what women looked like with their clothes off. Still, his best friend was willing to pay him a whole dollar for a drawing of a naked lady. The fledgling artist toyed with the elusive form for a while, but it was like trying to imagine the anatomy of an alien. The image kept slipping around a dark yet strangely familiar corner in his mind. Was it hiding or lurking? The troubling nature of the encounter persuaded him to forgo finishing the drawing.

It was hot for April. Too hot to draw. The jostle of sweaty children made the un-air-conditioned cinderblock schoolroom oppressive; the only perfume in the stagnant air was clotted rubber cement. Once vibrant crayons were smashed on the hard tile floor and trampled underfoot, along with pieces of pulverized construction paper. These abused remnants were soon to become childhood memories—but not just yet.

Awestruck by it all, the newness of Michael’s young life was still unfolding before him with sensations and feelings he could barely contain. He squinted out the long roll of windows that ran parallel to his desk and tried to pick apart things in the Sun, but the blues and greens of heaven and earth melted into an inextricable mishmash. He did not remember the precise moment he was born, though his memory stretched far into the obscuring glare. His path out of it was awash in vague watercolors, from the infant recollection of being overwhelmed by autumn leaves floating into his stroller to the harrowing discovery of his bulbous knees in short pants around the age of two. In recent immeasurable years, he had only begun to appreciate the improbability of it all.

Perhaps the most unlikely of things was Suzanne. She was not only the prettiest girl in class but also the tallest. Slender limbs and straight dark hair made her willowy, while breezy dresses made her all but spirit. She was cruel to him on occasion, as she was with all the other boys; yet she too liked to draw. In fact, she made a point of arguing with Michael over which of them was the better artist. Both were passionate and opinionated, as only fourth graders could be, but it perplexed him why she should want to make an issue of it. Suzanne seldom had cause to talk to him, although on this muggy spring day she was on his side of the classroom. He crumpled his half-finished drawing of the naked lady on seeing her approach his desk. A general commotion whirled around them, one associated with the transition from playground back to civilized society.

She was unusually docile, even sweet. “I have decided you draw better than me.”

Michael did not know how to respond.

“Will you draw me a picture?”

The stunned boy nodded agreeably, and Suzanne returned to her side of the room.

Mrs. Wahl told the children it was time for their afternoon nap. This was the part of day where they put their heads down and a large freestanding fan whisked them off for a short rest. Schubert’s C Major Quintet was the feature selection on the record player, and its melodious character quieted the assembly. Michael often used this time to examine his desk carefully. The veneer of the topside was less intriguing than the underside. Where one side offered hard clamminess, the other was a tactile realm of wooden dowels, screws, and petrified chewing gum. He happened to glance across the room in his distraction and spied Suzanne staring at him through splayed fingers. She stuck out her tongue and smiled; the boy returned the gesture. There was something about the moment, with Schubert, the oscillating fan, and the windows reflecting in Suzanne’s eyes. Inspired, the artist pulled the unfinished drawing from his notebook and wrote the words I Love You in the margin.

Missy, who sat across the aisle from him, glimpsed the sketch before he returned it to its hiding place. “God can see you drawing dirty pictures, Michael West,” she whispered.

He pretended not to hear her.

Mrs. Wahl rapped her desk to mark the end of the nap. On reclaiming everyone’s attention, she made an assignment for the weekend. The children, in groups of two, were to create an insect collection. The notion of touching bugs sent a shudder down Michael’s spine. He looked over at Suzanne when the other students began drawing up partners; she was still staring at him. He turned away, doubly horrified by the idea of teaming up with a girl. Besides, she would find out about his fear of bugs—and that would be the worst of the worst. In this tortured moment, his best friend tapped him on the shoulder wanting to recruit him as a partner. He was a broad-shouldered lad who had no qualms about picking up creepy crawlies. Michael glanced back at Suzanne, but some unanticipated eternity transpired. The wisp of a girl had moved on. The boy teamed up with his buddy and moved on as well.

He never drew the picture Suzanne requested. But in a sense, every picture he drew from that day forward was for her.