this is something i wrote for him.
your death is so sad so sad so sad. i sit here, hundreds of miles from the streets we may have shared, the sidewalks where we angled shoulders away from one another to avoid an unwelcome brush of flesh. here i sit and there you die. it amazes me--ain't a damn thing that made me better than you. honor student, church boy: your soul probably put mine to shame. but here i sit and there you lie.
i feel you. even in my ivory tower built with money so old it seems to creep out of the earth of its own volition. even after all my classes and all my lessons. even after all my discussions of theory and space and objectivity, as i watch your little sister sob on television, i still feel the throb of her cries deep in my chest.
and i am shocked: shocked because i might have known you; shocked because i might have known the men who killed you; shocked because i might have been one of those sorry souls too scared to scream out as they stomped on your skull. but mostly i am shocked that i feel anything. i thought my heart had grown numb to the sorrow of death come too soon--especially when that death stills another young brown body. but you, Mr. Albert, are no number.
you, my good boy, did not deserve to die.
so as tears force paths down cheeks unaccustomed to their flow, i hold the hush of your life close to my heart and sit a little while longer. i whisper promises--to you, to your family, to my God, to your God, to anyone who is listening.
i promise to pray for your family.
i promise to pray for your friends.
i promise not to be one of those sorry souls ever again.
but mostly i promise not to forget you.
i promise not to forget you.
i promise not to forget you.
i promise not to forget you.
i promise i promise i promise
i promise not to forget.
