[A short snippet of fiction I began in '02]


"A Season For All Things"


Dear Missus Henry,

There's a season for all things, that’s what the bible says, but that don't change the fact of what’s right and what’s wrong. I know that now. Some men 've said that the right and wrong of a thing depends on a mans point of view or the circumstances of his upbringin'. That may or may not be true, I don't know. I was never one for believin' in fairy tales. I reckon there’s some truth in those too. Even a grain of sand casts a shadow, you jus’ gotta git down close enough t' see it. And I guess that’s how I feel 'bout the right and wrong of things.

The bible says that David was a righteous man. It also says he kilt a man to fulfill his own lust, and God called him guilty of murder. But God also said David was a man after His own heart, and the apple of His eye, so I reckon a man can do all manner of evil and still find fergiveness in God. But don't misunnerstand me, Missus Henry, I don't liken myself another David, though I reckon I am guilty of murder.

But that’s neither here nor there now, Missus Henry. Seeing as how it's forty years on since then, but that don't lessen what I done. The fact is, killin's wrong no matter the season and I guess that’s why I'm writin' this here letter; to tell what I know. And what I saw. Perhaps it'll put to rest the why's and what for's I'm sure you've been askin' all this time. I know some folks’ll think forty three years is too much time gone by for my recollections to be uncolored by the lies I've tole others, and to myself. Forty-three years is a long time, I guess, but I swear what I'm goin' to tell you is true. I wished many times these past years that it wasn't or that I might ferget, but curse God, I remember ever detail.

Your husband was a good man, Missus Henry, but I reckon you already knowd that. But it's important I recognize it to you. When we was kids, John and me were friends. We was the same age, John and me. Our daddy’s worked at Moultries Lumber together, though I don't doubt my Pa received a better wage on account he was white. But we was just kids and didn't understand such things.

My Ma used to always say that I would live to be a hunnert years on account I was born at the turn of the century. My ma used to say that made me special but prison don't have much patience for those that think theyselves special. There ain't no place for anything but time here. And your husband deserved more ‘n he got. He should’a had the chance to see fifty; see his children come into their own. I don't reckon you'd disagree with me on that account.

Did you know we was raised together? His Ma looked out for me almost as much as my
own. I remember getting just as many whuppin's from her as from my own, and I remember my Ma thanking her for doin' it. Knowin’ the rascals me and John was, I reckon we both deserved 'em.

We was happy kids. But in all the years I've spent here I can't quite put a finger on
just when things changed or when it was exactly that we went our own ways. But I think now it must've been when me and John heard ol' Mr. Moultrie call John's Pa a no good lazy nigger. I didn't rightly know what a nigger was, 'cept it was bad. We was only ten or so, but I laughed so hard my jaw pure hurt. I didn't know enough to understand that John 'd be offended. Ever other man my pa knew called your folk niggers, so I thought that’s what you was. But John and I was never close after that.

I never unnerstood how one set of folks could call theyselves one thing, and another set say they’s somethin' else, though I’ve come to unnerstand that no one ever agrees on everthin'. I guess that’s what comes with bein' an indivijul. White folk have always been white, but it seemed for many years, your folk couldn't seem to make up they mind as to just what they wanted to be. Negro, Colored, Black, they's all the same, or so I used to think. But as I look back on it now, those words just describe a white man's idea of what a black man is. An if'n the truth be known, we only know how to be what we are. I no more unnerstand what it is to be black than a black man unnerstands what it's like bein' white, and we hate each other for it; for the strangeness of it all. But that don't make it right.

There’s a lot of hatin' in the bible, Missus Henry, but I reckon you already know that seein' as how you're a church goin' woman; Missus Hargraves tole me that in the letter she sent me to tell me about my Ma's passin', but I've come to learn that hate is not what the bible's about, despite it bein' full of hate an war. That's just histry. God had to remind us of what we was before he could git us to see we couldn't be good on our own, or just how much we needed him so's we could be what we might if'n we was better people; to change what we might otherwise've become.

It's hard to love, Missus Henry. It's even harder to forgive. But Jesus was a good man, the only really good man to ever live. But I reckon you know that too.

I've learned a lot here in prison, Missus Henry. I learned that the face you show to the world ain't always what’s really there. You gotta be tough to survive here. That’s true whether you're locked up or not, but I feel it's time that you knew the truth of what happened that day. What really happened and not what was told at court. I'm dyin', Missus Henry. Cancer done ate up near everything I can honestly call my own, but not the truth. That I swear.