We’re back, blog-o-sphere.
As a member of the 2012 Fall Cohort, I’m just a few short semesters away from the end of an era here in Ann Arbor. And fittingly so, I plan to use every moment of the next year eating as much delicious food and collecting as many favorite establishment t-shirts as humanly possible: Angelo’s, Zingerman’s, Fleetwood Diner, Washtenaw Dairy, Madras Masala, and the list goes on and on.
In the meantime, I sit and drink lots of Pizza Bob’s shakes on my front porch, contemplating the deepest thoughts of life. Today, September 11, brings me to this, the story of the Red Bandana. It’s a story of a mother finding her son, a stranger saved by the honor of another. If we live our lives — as seniors at the University of Michigan or seniors in a tower in Manhattan — without pausing, without feeling the impact of our actions, of the actions of others, we are missing the opportunity to truly be alive.
“What would you do in the last hour of your life? Where would you be? Who would remember it? What would it look like? Maybe it would look like this:” Man in the Red Bandana
Live this September. For Wells.