Earning Innocence. Andrew Taylor-Troutman

look on his face makes it clear. He means what he says. I admire this about Bud and have often made it a point to tell him while passing through his checkout line on my way home—a reality that has just as often tweaked my conscience.

      Since he has to sleep at some point, Bud missed his two-year-old, haloed in soft morning light, lift his glass of milk and quite carefully pronounce, “I am a drinkin’ sunshine.” Dorothy tried to coax little Timothy into a second performance after his daddy had emerged from the dark lair of the bedroom. But some moments are tragically fleeting like the early rays themselves. And someone has to cover the rising cost of milk—even if the sunshine is free.

      On this particular Monday morning, the day had announced its arrival with majestic red fanfare, which I had appreciated on my morning walk, having benefitted from a good night’s sleep. But Bud had stared glassy-eyed at the same sunrise. At the end of an all-night shift on duty, on top of the previous day’s work at the store, he had been so utterly consumed by his weariness that it took more than a few moments to register the flashing red button on the control panel beneath the window. When awareness finally dawned, Bud had not been overly concerned as he was most often paged for quite pedestrian reasons, such as walking to a resident’s room to fetch a glass of water.