The Janitor Everyone Looked Through

The first time I saw Mr. Samuel Finch cry, he was kneeling on the marble floor of the Harrington Arts Center with a mop in one hand and a crushed bouquet of lilies in the other.

He was seventy-one, though he moved like a man much older. His shoulders were narrow beneath his faded gray janitor’s uniform, and his name tag hung crooked over his chest: continue reading …