Dear Anonymous,
He reminds me of many young men I have met. Handsome. Young. So young. Stories of lives detoured by drugs. Colleges left. Classes abandoned. Families distanced. The siren of heroin. The mistress who will not be refused easily. It may not be his exact story but some of the refrains are so familiar. The despondency cloaked as survival skill.
He shows me he still has the mask he requested from me last week. Tucked away safely in his pocket. To use on the bus. He shows me.
So many young men. And women. Derailed. I am fortunate, blessed really, to know many that have flourished in recovery. And their about-faces hold me in these moments. Not that I insist it should be any different than it is, but that it CAN be.
Maybe there really is a season, and a time for every purpose, under heaven.