To 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. Said “let’s have all male classes.” “Let’s get that man from New York to train us.” 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, Understood how to bond. They are grown men now. Their memories are mildly, grateful. They are the ones who have power. I, the needy, old woman. They are angels, unaware. 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. May know my voice. They are angels. Unaware. My karmic gifts. Grown successful men. My Brother-Keepers. I pray for them. They are my sons.