(My second Cowbird submission.)
I collect smiles like some people collect rare and exotic maps of foreign locations and relics from times gone by. Someone else owned these things once. Once they belonged to men and boys, in their pockets, on their faces. They touched them with their hands, found in them direction, and then left them behind. Now they belong to collectors like me, enshrined in frames and memories.
My collection began with a stranger on the streets of Boston.
I got me a Cowbird account. It’s a collaborative writing community. In their words, “a witness to life.” In my words, a good excuse to keep writing non-fiction.
My first Cowbird story was written per request of my friend Sam:
“I’m sorry, Sam, but I don’t remember how we met. I was probably drunk or about to be, hopping from flat to flat, bar to bar in a strange country.
“But, it’s okay, Sam. I do remember the moment we became friends and not just people who say hello at Pint Night. Maybe you remember this? We both wanted cookies.”
