The Brother Keepers

They know me, still, behind my aged teacher face. They wave to me in my car, running wildly home from school on a sunny afternoon. I smile and wave back, thinking, “my sons know me, still.” Caught by my discerning eye when hooking class, they make charging returns to school, backpacks rocking side to side. I protected them once. Defended them. Gave them self-respect, pride. I opened their eyes to command the printed page, giving them power for a world against them. Our game plan challenged their challenges. Encouragement reinforcement, praise The Dontes. Keyonnes, Jerrods, Terrells, Jarrells, To dream, to have a dream They are grown men now. Their memories are mildly, grateful. They are the ones who have power. I, the needy, old woman. Large men, small men- with money always divinely placed directly behind me in check out when I must put a chicken back. They just casually say, “Put it with my stuff.” They know me not. Yet, they know something. They are the ones now with a wad. When I have insufficient funds a young voice directly behind me says, “I got it” brandishing a large green wad. I say, “I only need 20 cents. But the wad pays for the whole thing. “I say thank you my Brother. Be safe” They are casual. To them, a small gesture. They have made it. They jump to my rescue and say,” I got it.” Please, “I got it,” as if pulling the shades down in the classroom. They know something. They are angels. Unaware. My karmic gifts. Grown successful men. My Brother-Keepers. I pray for them. my sons.