Gregory Wesley Kerengton

He was bigger than the average person.  He was bigger than his brothers, who were big.  He was bigger than his father whom he inherited the bigness from.  He took up all the space and there was no room for anyone else by reason of himself.  It is funny how he did not know that as a child.  Growing up in a small project apartment, he found himself squeezed into places that never fit.  He slept in a bed that was too small.  He slept in a room that was too small.  He was served portions that was too small and was surrounded by friends, whose view, was too small.  How could he tell his beloved brother that there was more to life than becoming his father?  How could he tell Curry that life is more than meat and bread?  How could he tell Elvis, the only white boy on the block, that he was meant for more than serving beer in a pitcher and how could he tell Tionne that there was more to life than the Longview Projects.  He couldn't tell them, he could only express the nasty attitude that said, this life does not fit me.  It was like walking with shoes that pinch your toes in such a way that it caused you to snarl at the mailman.  No one ever thought that his salty silence or his wordless hellos were a sign that he was a great man pushed into an average man's life.  No one ever asked if one hotdog would fill him up.  No one wondered if he could lay in a bed without folding himself in half to fit it.  It was fine for them, but one day, he will go to Hess Park and stretch his full seven foot body in the grass and feel for a moment what it would be like to be comfortable in his own skin.  He would love it, relish it, search for it and never let it go again.  One day,  his world will fit.