I survey the young writers—they’re smiling naively, completely unaware of all that is to follow in their adulthoods, excitedly taking part in this good moment. Several young women are looking at me like maybe they’re exactly where I was when I was their age, desperately needing what Mr. Vernon offers, forging their own life philosophies in notebooks, or maybe on laptops and iPads or whatever fiction-minded kids use to dream these days.
And then, just like that, I’m back in my body again.
Everything is tingling.
I knew.
And now maybe I know again.
So when the kids ask with what seems like bona fide enthusiasm—even though I feel a little silly and self-conscious about it, not to mention the pathetically little practice I have—I sign their books.
Mr. Vernon stands proudly at the edge of the crowd, both hands on his cane. Yo-Yo Ma sits patiently by his master’s feet, looking up with unabashed adoration.
Another thought hits me hard as a lawn dart to the eye: this moment is so terribly unimportant to the rest of the world, yet it means everything to me somehow—and it’s enough.
So I sign and I sign and I sign.
The kids actually seem starstruck as they gape at my official author autograph and smile back appreciatively in a way that lets me know that a powerful teacher and a truly kind man prepped them for this good moment.
And at one point, I look up and see it.
The spark in Mr. Vernon’s eye—it’s back.