Another Black Man Is Dead
A Short Story
“I never thought we would get pulled over.”
I sat across from a lady I barely knew, about to share the most horrific night in detail, down to the last moments that I saw my husband alive. How is this helping me again?
“Where were you going?” she asked.
“I was taking everyone home. I was the designated driver for the evening. They were celebrating Kelvin’s birthday and there were a lot of shots taken to celebrate.”
“Why were you pulled over?”
I closed my eyes and sighed deeply, inhaling the air like my husband had when he was gasping for his last breath. As I sat in that uncomfortable chair, made out of a plastic, hard vinyl that kept making me shift my ass from side to side to get the feeling back, the vision of that night’s events were blurring in my mind.
The question everyone asked me over and over always brought back that terrible memory like a bad taste of last night’s drink choice, which seems an odd analogy for what happened.
It was two years ago, but it never stopped feeling like it just happened. The news displays so many cases just like mine, but it doesn’t truly resonate with you until it is your reality. It didn’t seem real until I was holding his urn. He didn’t want a traditional burial…
