The leg I tripped over belonged to a boy sleeping on the sidewalk in New York City. The leg was not very hairy and was covered by clean, white basketball shorts. It looked exactly like my boy’s leg.
When that boy was little, I used to stroke his arm and say "This is my arm,” and he would laugh and ask how it could be my arm when it was attached to his body. But he didn't tell me I was wrong. He would offer me his other arm and I would solemnly refuse it. “No, that one is not mine. I worship only this one.”
Lori Wald Compton