A soft low whistle

I know this man in Birmingham with a voice you would not believe.  When I say to him I am walking with my girl he responds in a hum that is warm and so full of fundamental regard that his response, Is she on your arm? is a last sweet lingering taste of caramel.

He is not a preacher, although born to it, and yet is the only grown man other than my father from whom I can remember requesting a prayer.  It came out of the blue, from my own mouth with me more surprised than anyone. Well certainly we can, he said, as though I was chilled and in need of a borrowed sweater.  We bowed our heads I can’t say where, but it was a place where love was forsaken, shattered, then reassembled until every shard was accounted for and logged in the blood.

He prayed in thanks for the day, like he was recounting a delicious meal yet to be eaten, and then we said amen and we tucked into it.






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