Purple Heart
The principal of my grade school appears in memory as if designed by Barthes. He’s twelve feet tall and at that age when men look primarily dignified or undignified (he is dignified). The creases of his pants are sharp. He says nothing and stands like a tree, our heads reaching his knees, orchestrating the school from a desk behind which hangs, between two others, a drawing of a horse that I made in second grade.
