Robert Davis' mother was murdered.
He heard about it
as he watched the TV news.
When he came by I thought he wanted a coffee
from me or a cigarette from my roommate.
When hitting on my roommate
he comes in with a cartoon voice and silliness.
When after my stuff, he comes in all liturgical
like he's come from prayer.
Today he came in like he'd just been slapped in the mouth.
Like an armless, legless man
with the insult of a stinging cheek.
He made his numb, vapid announcement,
"My mama just got murdered."
No tears moistened the spheres of bewilderment
that were his eyes.
He barely managed to wipe away the drool
that depended in a long drip from his lower lip.
He turned and left.
I'd hardly time to gasp.
After I recovered I decided he needed help
with closure, grief and faith.
About four hours later I gathered him
and several others who knew him.
To listen. To pray.
Before we held hands, he said,
"We cain't pray for Mama.
She busted hell wide open. I know.
If you knew my Mama, you'd know."
What could I say?
We got quiet.
Appointed by the consensus of avoidance,
I began to pray.
I nearly lost my train of thought
when I considered our prayer circle
included a man with big breasted nude women
toting weapons tattooed on his calves, arms and chest;
a man who is operating
an IRS income tax refund scam
that is netting thousands of dollars
and filling up his inmate canteen fund;
a man who is a self-confessed and profane racist;
and Robert, who just a week earlier,
had to be restrained by a neighbor
from stabbing a man with his sharpened pencil.
By the time I said, Amen, I felt stupid,
for having prayed about a woman in hell
with men who live like hell.
Robert now had tears in his eyes.
I felt an ache in my heart for him.
He couldn't talk so he hugged
each one of us and left in silence.
I trust God listened, took our measure
and consulted with his mercy.
Men left my room thinking of him
and his promises.
And, Robert's Mama was remembered.
Gano Reinhardt
