Black and white boy

There was something awkward about the three of us walking to your home hoping you would be there to answer the door. It was the days when the only way to find someone was to physically go to their place. We rode the train in silence, hopped the turnstiles in silence, walked in silence, having decided that a week was too long not to have your charm infusing our drunken conversations.

We knocked on your door. We knocked on your back window. We peered. We suspected we were too late. Are you there? Say something about the Sunday before.

We didn't then want to go to your park, but the least we could do if we couldn't save you was to find you. When we did, I couldn't look at you, high up there on that tree already dead or dying. I had seen your face flushed pink with intimacy, red with rage, green with envy, yellow in sickness, but never purple. I expected you might swing, but your limbs just hung there. No need to grip, twitch, fret, wring. I gagged. Somebody wailed.

The police questioned the three of us for hours. I told them the name of your doctor, and the time we meandered aimlessly through the city to end up on the steps of the Opera House to see the Crowdies banter and bid farewell. Don't dream it's over was the last song of the encore. Hessie put on a good show. We were mesmorised by the drumsticks, do you remember? You even admired his hair of imagination. But years later the black and white boy took a leaf from your tree.

And it turns out they lied. That would not be the last time they sang in front of a live audience. Come November the three of us will see them again. Too bad the same can't be said about you. It wasn't the first time you tried, but it would be your last.