18

I did right. Raised him from boy to man, sent him out into the world to become what he became and everyone tells me I did right. Listen to him sing in his room, at church, heard his voice and figured to myself I did right. Held him in my arms the day he was birthed, smiled as tears fell down my face onto him and after praising my God I figured I did right; watched him, watched him sleep peaceful, and went to bed, thinking I did right. Listen to that “music” he made for years while he made himself a false idol to them women who knew damn well they needed Jesus more than they needed my son, who sold them good times instead of sewing seeds of salvation into those lost souls until he became one of them and I shake my head, thinking I did right to listen to his momma and let my dope addict rock star child come home and tell me I’m wrong for laying my hand down upon the woman I married like he could even think he loves her more than I do, thinkin nothin as he shook his finger at me, stompin at me with that dope in his blood, an madness in his eyes I did not give him and a gun in my hand.

Flash.




I’m sitting in a courtroom. Don’t know how I got here. I’m cold, wearin an orange jumpsuit I don’t remember putting on. Everyone’s looking at me, some cryin, some of em yellin, and the mother of my child is looking at the floor and I’m remembering; and I’m hoping, and I’m praying, that I did right.