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I’m sitting at The Well in Nashville. I’m at the long table by the big window with the view of Lipscomb. A gentlemen in a wheelchair rolls by. He’s young. Not much older than me. He’s wearing a white polo that squeezes tightly around bulging tree-trunk-like arms. That’s what happens when your arms become your legs. He stops his wheelchair. Leans down. Picks up a tattered piece of fabric in the grass, adding it to a pile of trash laying in a heap on his lap. The trash is boisterous against his clean thoughtfully-ironed khakis. I keep watching. He keeps rolling. Onto the next piece of trash littering this world he goes. I start writing. I start writing about how this gent can’t use his legs but is leaving the world better than he found it.

By Cole Schafer.

P.S. One day these one-minute writings will be a big book called “One Minute, Please.” Can I let you know when that day comes? You can say yes, here.

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