Donald Wyatt. I have written of him before and did not plan to write about him again. Then, just today, something happened.
I was slated to meet him at the usual place. We’ve been having lunch together once a month for more than seven years. Not coincidentally, it’s been exactly that many years since I last worked as a social worker for a local mental-health agency. Donald was one of my clients. When I was about to retire, his mother asked me if I would have coffee or lunch with Donald once in awhile.
“Sure,” I said, never thinking it would go on for so long.