It is a blue, cotton shirt. The shirt belonged to my1David. On his birthday before he left college, his mother bought him the shirt.2I gave him free use of my bike, he let me wear the shirt, occasionally.
We shared the shirt, and as days3, we shared more of our4. David was in school by scholarships and grants (助学金). He5to keep his scholarships, because without even one of them, he would have to6and back on the farm. And in David's home, there was always only enough money to cover the expense. His father died when he was twelve.
At times David also talked about his father. Usually it was late at night, in the dormitory just before bed, and the7always ended with tears that flowed from a river of memories and longings: memories of a father suffering from8when his son was just a teenager; longings for opportunities to cure his father's disease missed, because disease does not understand about the9between father and son. Nor does it care.
Time passed and we had to say goodbye to each other. After lots of hugging, and words of thanks, we eventually departed. It was on my10trip upstairs to our dorm that I saw a package on my bed. I11the wrapping paper. It was the blue cotton shirt in a box with a card12to it, reading "Thomas, I can't thank you enough for your13. There have been tough years and you have been14a friend. Thank you for listening. Thanks for everything. —David".
I put aside the note, with15tears dropping on the shirt. I still have the shirt today, though it has faded and wrinkled with age.
