Lint

It doesn’t bother me to have lint in the bottoms of pant pockets; it gives the hands something to do, especially since I no longer hold shovel, hod, or hammer in the daylight hours of labor and haven’t, in fact, done so in twenty-five years. A long time to be picking lint from pockets. Perhaps even long enough to have gathered sacks full of lint that could have been put to good use, maybe spun into yarn to knit a sweater for my wife’s Christmas present, or strong thread whirled and woven into a tweedy jacket. Imagine entering my classroom in a jacket made from lint. Who would believe it? Yet there are stranger things— the son of a bricklayer with hands so smooth they’re only fit for picking lint.