his hand

this hand belongs to a young man whose father is currently serving a life sentence for manslaughter.

this hand belongs to a young man who overdosed on darvocet a few weeks ago before coming into my class.

this hand belongs to a young man who "tattoos" himself with an ink pen daily, writing "thug" or "bad ass" or "motherfucker" on his arms.

this hand belongs to a young man who, when told that i was going to our school's art show to take pictures of his work, responded, "would you really do that?"

yes, i would do that.

while walking him down the hall the other day, i reminded him of how much i love him, and how i would miss him this summer. as i patted him on the back, shooed him into his next class, and turned to make my way back to my room, i breathed out loud:

"i don't know how to save him."

someone, i won't say who, responded to me in very serious tones,

"that's not your job."

this hand belongs to a young man who i am almost certain will wind up in prison, or worse yet, die, within the next five years.

and here i helplessly stand, watching him self-destruct, and there's not a damn thing i can do to stop it.

but then again, that's not my job...