“Mom, I need to bring stamps to school,” F. says.
I look up from the pot I’m stirring and wonder why all last minute requests seem to come while I’m making dinner.
F. nods his head yes. As part of a class project, each student will write a letter. Tomorrow they’ll address and stamp each one to send. F. has written to his best buddy from preschool, a boy whose mother and I vowed to keep in touch when preschool ended and the boys started different schools in different towns.
We haven’t spoken in two years.
Sigh. Life gets away from you like that.
I’m thrilled he’s writing to Nickol and including photos from our recent trip to the beach. I laugh at the idea of Nickol and his mother looking through the pictures. None are of F. All are blurry close-ups of fish.
I turn down the stove burner and open my wallet. “You need one?” I ask, pulling out receipts hoping to find a lone stamp tucked behind my Macy’s card.
“I need to bring a couple. Because you know some kids are going to forget.”
“F? Is this a random act of kindness?”
A sly smile slides across his face. “Maybe it is, maybe it isn’t.”