For My Friend Sam


And so on his last day, he dressed as though it was his first: a pale green patterned wool suit with blue button down oxford shirt, navy silk tie and argyle sweater vest. Perched atop his head was a wool tweed flat cap, just like an English professor might wear. The way he dressed said a lot about this day—the day he left a job where he had been employed for the past sixteen years and eight months.

It had been a job where he practiced his craft. He was a writer of uncommon ability, and his gift had been too good for that place anyway. You see, his capacity to breathe life into words and make words into symphony was far superior to any task he could have ever been given there. Still, whatever touches he could add, he did; whatever wisdom he could give, he gave.

The way he dressed on this day said a lot about the man himself, too. It said that while others may decide that his work there was done, they would not decide how he would go. They would not decide how he would feel. They would not decide—ultimately—his future.

And so on his last day, he dressed as though it was his first. Because in every way that mattered, it really was.