I read in the newspaper that
the Emmett Till memorial, after being stolen
and thrown into the Tallahatchie River,
and replaced, and then shot full of holes,
and then replaced and shot full of holes again,
has been replaced, again, by an inch-thick
steel marker weighing 500 pounds.
The manufacturer claims it’s bulletproof.
And when I read about the circumstances
and the justifications used to excuse
murder, I think back, because I can,
to events in my life, similar to those others
but for one significant detail. When I read
about the murder of George Floyd, I recalled
how, as a boy, I stole a carton of Marlboro Reds
from my grandmother and sold them
in the alley behind Denny’s. I made
a dime a smoke from the neighborhood kids,
and with the money I bought a cap gun,
a cast-metal replica of a Colt Peacemaker
with a tooled-leather holster. And when I read
about the murder of Tamir Rice, I recalled
how I would stand with that toy
pistol on the lawn of the First Baptist Church
and practice outdrawing the passing cars.
And when I read about the murder of
Armaud Arbery, I recalled the years I lived
in south Georgia, how I ran through every
neighborhood in that small town, often stopping
to rest in the shade of some old oak,
gray moss hanging down like ghosts.
When I read about these deaths, I thought of
all the foolish or innocent or insignificant
things I’ve done, things I did for attention
or approval or for no reason at all. How
in high school my buddies and I would hang
out in front of the drugstore and whistle and
cat call and leer as girls hurried past,
their faces red, their eyes fixed on
where they were going, which was anywhere
into the future, toward love and lives
they imagined while lying safe in their beds at night.
Most of them got there, and I did, too,
eventually. I look back, because I can,
and it seems like it took no effort at all,
this growing up and growing old. And now
I sit at the kitchen table each morning
before work, sharing the paper with my wife,
who’ll often ask if I want another cup
of coffee for the road, or remind me
not to forget to buy milk on the way home
or that the kids are coming over for dinner on Friday.
And I’ll finish my coffee and fold the paper
and rise, and she’ll follow me to the door
where I’ll kiss her and say, “Bye, Baby,”
which was all Emmett Till said, or may have said,
or didn’t say,
as he left Bryant’s Grocery after buying some candy.
