We all get bent this way and that by time, like that gnarled old buckeye tree on the curve of West King Street, split by lightning and scorched, and it's hard to believe I was once the little kid who ran the whole way home past that tree in the dark, scared of spooks, from John Brody's house. And what I'd give to go back there, to wake up and find out this whole twisted life of mine has been a dream, but no, time is the swamp that sucks us all under, and we can't turn the clock back by as little as a minute, oh life, I'll never forget the day we sat on the porch and watched the Klan march past, or the day my sister and I tucked a metal box full of not much into the hollow of the willow tree out behind the garage, long gone now that willow, along with lots of other things I used to love, the sight of my father burning trash in the 55-gallon drum by the willow, because history shows no more mercy than the jury that condemned the kid down the block, who grew up to kill a guy and almost kill a woman, just to get up the money to pay off some gambling debts, to life in prison.

Comments

[Jeffers]

To be fair, not exactly sure he should be out on the street. Is parole a possibility?