The Boy Who Sat Three Rows Behind Me
In 1958, our church still smelled like candle wax, old hymn books, and polished wood.
Every Sunday morning, sunlight poured through the stained-glass windows in long ribbons of blue and gold, warming the dust that drifted through the sanctuary. The choir benches creaked whenever anyone shifted too quickly, and Mrs. Hargrove, the choir director, always tapped her little tuning fork against the music stand exactly three times before rehearsal began.
That was where I first noticed Charles Bennett.
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