Forgot your password?

We just sent you an email, containing instructions for how to reset your password.

Sign in

  • I met him at a minimum
    security prison.
    Then he got out.
    We spent a weekend together,
    as friends.

    He was black
    and I was white.
    And in that time, and that town,
    that was frowned upon.
    I can't say I was colorblind,
    as I wasn't raised that way;
    but I tried.

    We went out to lunch and
    while we were talking,
    a strange thing happened.
    I looked at him
    and couldn't see him.
    All I could see was light.
    I blinked several times
    thinking it was my eyes,
    or I was faint,...
    but the vision remained;
    then went back to normal again.
    Odd, I thought.

    He went back
    to his family farm to help out
    and I went back
    to my usual activities.

    I received a few letters from him.
    Then one day
    I got a letter from his mom.
    She knew about me
    as he had spoken of me.
    She had found a poem he wrote and she wanted me to have it,
    as she felt it was intended for me.

    I don't have the poem now
    and don't really remember
    the words.
    What I do remember
    is it foretold of his death
    through a beautiful prose.

    His mom explained
    there had been an accident.
    The tractor had fallen on him
    and killed him.

    I was shocked
    as he was in his twenties
    and strong.
    I thought back
    to my restaurant vision
    and realized I had seen him
    as he is,
    not an inmate,
    not black,
    not even a man,
    but as light.

    And somehow he knew,
    as it was in his poem.
    • Share

    Connected stories:

About

Collections let you gather your favorite stories into shareable groups.

To collect stories, please become a Citizen.

    Copy and paste this embed code into your web page:

    px wide
    px tall
    Send this story to a friend:
    Would you like to send another?

      To retell stories, please .

        Sprouting stories lets you respond with a story of your own — like telling stories ’round a campfire.

        To sprout stories, please .

            Better browser, please.

            To view Cowbird, please use the latest version of Chrome, Safari, Firefox, Opera, or Internet Explorer.