When I was in high school, our English teacher read a short story and asked who in the class liked it. I loved it.

I didn’t raise my hand. No one did.

I felt comfortable in that class, so, during the time my hand stayed down, I wondered why I wasn’t giving credit to the author of such a great story. This has bothered me since.

I pictured that it was written by a relatively unknown author, and felt guilty for not affirming that the story really spoke to me.

For some reason the other day, I decided to put a few key words in and google them. I found the story, and it’s written by a famous author. That made me feel less guilty. I figured Thomas Wolfe did just fine without my tie-dyed, gauze-sleeved arm flying up in the air forty years ago.

But it still wasn’t right.

But I was a teen, I argue.

But you felt at home in that class.

How many times do we fail to express

that someone has touched us?

I reread the story and still love it. I will post about the story itself soon. But I just needed to get this off my chest.

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