A confident hand, large for a boy just become man, proffered in the dry heat of a Los Angeles July on Figueroa Street. A chance meeting mapped to the moment by Providence.
“Hi, I’m Brian Hudson. I’m from Idaho.”
I notice the hiking boots with Navy Surplus socks pulled up and backpack strapped across the chest, the small iron cross hanging from a leather cord around his neck. I notice farmer-tanned arms, strong with building houses down in Mexico for a summer. Fingers blistered playing guitar in the streets of Rosarito, worship hymns around the campfire. Blue eyes alight with ambition and kindness. I knew then that he was something rare, a Gentle Man.
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