By Mike Blackwell

A man is leaving town tomorrow.

Michael came to Brownwood two years ago, a 15-year-old who was tired of moving, tired of struggling in school, tired of delivering papers on cold winter mornings in Illinois. Just tired.

He called me on a Thursday, and by Sunday night, we began our "new life" together in an efficiency apartment approximately the size of your bedroom closet. For a month we lived in the cramped surroundings before we found a place in Early. The new home was much larger than the apartment; his room was in the back of the house, which enabled me to live with sanity and peace even when he cranked the volume on his CD player.

The first months of our life were tricky. His idea of "loud" and mine differed. His idea of "good grades" and mine differed. His idea of "quality" television and mine differed. We shared laughs, dreams, bean burritos and arguments. His teachers told me what a great kid he was, how much fun he was in the classroom. They also said they wished he would "focus" more. Gradually, Michael came to understand this plea.

The grades improved, he found an old beat up car to drive, and he got a job sacking groceries. He went to movies and hung out with friends. He slept late when he could, he played his music too loud and his room was a wreck. He became a regular teenager, except that so many things he did were uniquely Michael.

On too many nights, I would come home late and throw a couple of corn dogs in the microwave for supper. He ate them, enjoyed them, appreciated them.

When money was tight, he never complained. If I told him to be home at 10, he was home at 10. Every now and then, he would buy me dinner. Sometimes, when I stuck my head in his room to tell him good night, he would be listening to music or drawing or reading the Bible. When you surprise your kid by sticking your head in his room and he's reading the Bible, you feel pretty good about his chances.

He was decent with his chores, although he rarely remembered to put a new trash bag in the can. On the days when I was too testy, when I would frustratingly try and explain to him why I was unhappy with him about something, he would stop my rambling and say, "Dad. It's okay. I understand."

He tolerated my paranoia when he would drive away. Soon, when he would grab his keys to go, I would get up to walk him to the door and he would say, "I know, I know: be careful, don't drive too fast, don't be where I shouldn't be, be home on time, here's my driver's license and you're going to leave the porch light on. Anything else?"

Then he would shake his head and drive away. What he said always made me feel better when the taillights disappeared into the night. The kid listens, and that's a gift he probably doesn't fully appreciate now.

He also watched me fall crazily for Angie, and he came to clearly see what made our relationship so special. In Angie, Michael saw a woman who made his dad believe there is life, real life, beyond the press box. He also saw a woman he could laugh with, aggravate, talk to. Every now and then, I would say to Michael, "Isn't Angie something?", and he would always say the same thing: "Dad, she's awesome."

From the 15-year-old who needed time and space and serenity has emerged a 17 year-old with so much promise. When he walked off the plane in Dallas two winters ago with a suitcase and a backpack, headphones blaring, he was a boy searching for his own place in the world. Now, as he gets ready to get back on the plane in Dallas with the same suitcase and backpack, he knows his place. Now he wants to enjoy his final two years of high school with his sister, who is one year behind him in school. When he graduates, he's thinking about becoming a Marine or perhaps a Navy Seal, or maybe college.

The other day he said he might even want to be a preacher. He's not sure what he's going to do with the rest of his life, and that's certainly fine with me. I see his eyes, I hear him talk, I watch him live, and I know that whatever he does, he'll do well. Wherever he goes, that place will be better. Whoever he meets will love him.

A man is leaving town tomorrow, and if you see him, wish him luck. And tell him we'll leave the porch light on.