There was a guy at my high school who always dressed in the same blue sweatsuit. No matter the weather, I would see him across the quad, maybe pacing or talking to himself, always in blue. I don’t recall any conversations my friends and I had about him, but somebody dubbed him, “Blueberry.”

That’s all I knew about him. I didn’t give him another thought (self-absorbed teenager that I was)—until I found myself in daily negotiations over clean shirts and weather-appropriate clothes with the young man who lives with me.

Now I wonder, thirty-five-plus years later, if I might know something about that kid after all. And, his mother.

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