After walking the dirt half-mile from the highway, he arrives in the house, drops his backpack and removes his shirt, saying that the temperature was higher today than it was supposed to be. (In the chill of the early June morning, he chose to wear a long sleeve shirt to school.)
“Lately, I resent men going topless,” I say.
“Do you want me to put it back on,” he asks.
I remember my mother’s scoldings as a girl: “Put a shirt on!”
And later, about the age my son is now: “Put a bra on!”
The accumulation of shame.
As the temperatures rise in these Green Mountains, I feel anger rise in me when I see men walking the road–aged men and young men like my son–each one topless–as if all the space in the world is theirs, without a care for who might rape them.