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.