His Name Is Billy

And I was thinking about him today. Billy is my age. We grew up in the same little Arizona town. Had Billy attended school, we would have shared teachers and classrooms and maybe even a smile or two. However, we never attended even one class in the little town's only school, not even first grade. When he was four years old, Billy walked in back of a horse. Startled, the horse kicked out blindly just in case whatever was behind him meant harm. Billy meant no harm. The horse didn't know that and doubtless meant no harm, either, when it kicked Billy in the head. Throughout all of the years since that accident, Billy has remained a four-year-old in a body that has grown from a toddler to a teenager to an adult and now to middle aged man.
I never met Billy. Once I saw him sitting in the passenger seat of the car owned by his parents. Either his father or his mother had run into the store and left Billy alone in the car. My mother and I walked by and when we were far enough away to not be heard, my mother whispered to me, "That's Billy."
Even without her explanation, I probably would have known that the dreamy faced, smiling young man was Billy. He looked strangely and hauntingly peaceful.
In that small town, Billy helped my parents teach me a powerful lesson. Heads are fragile. I have never, since at least the age of four, even considered walking in back of a horse. While that lesson may be of little use at the moment, it probably saved my life several times over on the cattle ranch of my youth. And who knows. The memory of my mother's whispered, "That's Billy," may sometime in the future keep me from becoming my own worst enemy.
Earlier this evening I listened to a recording of beautiful, classical guitar. As I listened, I thought of Billy for the first time in decades and wondered what he enjoyed.
Heads are fragile and life is precious.