Little Blue Book We were both eleven or twelve, shared desks at St Mary’s Bible study class, reading our little blue Catechism books. One time he dragged me in a brown wagon across town, straight down the centre of a dangerous five-lane intersection, somehow avoiding whizzing traffic. My mother was waiting for me, at our front gate, holding the wooden pasta spoon that spoke when words weren’t enough. A few weeks later, he didn’t come to Bible study. I watched his empty desk, as the nun told us he had been hit by a car and…
Subscribe to get access to all online articles
Already a member?
Sign in to read this article