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Enter Poem or Quote (Required)Required Young Raymond worked the bakery was up 'bout ten to three. Just eighteen, still in high school he had dreams of flying free. He worked as hard as most grown men then walked to school and slept. Took all his wages home to Mom who thanked him as she wept. His forte's were science and math in those he could engage. Yet beneath all his knowledge was a silent, anxious rage. He dreamed, "I'll be an astronaut," but worked the fierce hot stoves. "Impossible to soar," he'd think while baking bread in loaves. Young Raymond lost his childhood by the time he reached sixteen. Quiet brilliant in mathematics he soon knew bread as his dean. Scattered among the loaves of bread, the flour, water, yeast, he lost that precious dream-hope and became an aged beast. One fine May day in Physics class with windows opened wide, most students lolling at their desk, our Raymond jumped and died. His skull was broken on the sidewalk entrance to our school. Striding across the room's wood floor he dove into a pool of warm spring air as he took flight toward impending death. We gasped and ran toward the bay while holding back our breath. Some of us thought he'd stand upright until we saw the blood. Our teacher pressed the intercom he'd shuddered at the thud. Somewhere inside that bright young mind with dreams of soaring high, the walls of Raymond's world caved in and left him asking why? Not old enough to be a man yet lost to days of youth, his brilliant mind found no escape he couldn't cipher truth. Epilogue While deputies worked at the scene we all departed school. With camera, tape, and clipboard they applied fact-finding tools. Yet none could reason why he jumped and in May chose to die. His teacher and the Sheriff would return to find out why. A physics book lay on his desk a paper on the leaves. Mathematically he'd worked it out, two grown men were bereaved. He knew the precise distance from the window to the walk. His pen the feet per second for his keen mind to meet shock. He'd chosen one three story flight over stacks and rowd of bread, abandoning the ovens that had given him deep dread. I think of him on fine May days rich with ambrosial air. I hope that Raymond soars the skies and sees his world as fair. Losing Raymond
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