I ran into an old friend, Mike, at the DMV yesterday who recently was involved in a pretty nasty altercation that put stitches in his face and throat. His face was bruised pretty badly, too. His attitude, though, was so good – he is happy to have survived the attack (which was, essentially, unprovoked), is happy to have a kind and beautiful girlfriend to go home to, is happy to be who he is.
Whenever I bump into Mike, I end up thinking about life in a pretty heavy way. (The last time we hung out, we had a great conversation about race.) I told him yesterday (jokingly) I wanted to give him a hug but I was afraid I would break him – he laughed and said “You can’t break me.” I believe it.
Of all the things lately that should make me want to write again, none of them have worked. But seeing Mike made me want to write.
Some call this “post traumatic growth.” I’m a believer.