This is the essay I wrote for Patience Salgado's Light project last fall. It's been painted over now, but while it was on the side of the building, it felt like I'd confessed and been forgiven. Sometimes I think it didn't happen, and sometimes I can not only see everything again clearly, but hear the men shouting, the sirens, the slight smell of tobacco from the man. I've wondered about this man ever since, and wish I could have thanked him, because I don't remember saying anything to him at all. It was 1965, Rochester, NY, near the corner of Gibbs St & E. Main.