This person was extremely small. He had sandy brown hair, chubby pink cheeks and brightly gleaming round glasses. He was cute enough to break your heart.
He stood before me, shaking.
"Give her the book," his mother told him sternly.
He placed a thick board book with brightly colored pictures on the counter. Tootles the Train, it was called.
"Tell her you're sorry," said the mother.
"I'm sorry," he said, his voice a whisper.
Looking at his small worried face, my mind flashed back to another child who wore glasses. A shy child who wished and dreamed for many things, but never could muster up the courage to ask. A child who was surpassingly crafty-- not because she liked stealing, but because she loved pretty and shiny things--like a crow. But more than anything she loved books, and it was books that she often....borrowed. Without asking.
"He's just fine," I told the mother, smiling at Tootles. I would have loved to give him the book, but of course I couldn't. I watched him walk away and experienced a fleeting impression that he was a person full of enormous potential, thief or no.
After all, I think I turned out just fine.
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