the Reflection from Deep Space

...every day of life is a day of traveling.  we're all on a Journey, and we're all logging data, even if we're not all aware of it.  so when a Journey is done, when a journal is laid down for the last time, it's sad for someone, it's sad for the person who laid it down, even though they themselves may not know it.  i know it's a bit  cryptic for the start of the day, but i've got things to do and now is now.

i am aware of a level of...convenience, i guess is the way it feels.  i was going to say 'comfort', but that wouldn't be true.  there's not much comfortable in this, but things are developing their own flow.  i am up after a decent night's sleep.  coffee's ready to turn on, my prayer is said.  i'm going to shower and shave today; we have a meeting and i have to get to it.  haven't been to one in about a week and a half, and i'm not feeling squirrelly but still, routine is not bad.  i'm feeling okay, the pain has abated for another cycle. 

but i'm grateful, and i'm sad and i'm blessed.  and that is a heavy combination. 

Monday night, i guess, a young man was shot and killed at a gas station i frequent.  it is part of my route to my parent's house, they have a lower price than most other stations.  i guess he and two friends went to the station and the friends went inside and someone started shooting from a wooded area and he jumped out and got killed.  i know; nothing about it sounds random. 

the young man was one of my residents in my short tenure at CCA.  his name was Jerry Franklin (no anonymity to protect now).  he was 26, and he'll never be 27.  he was, in dealing with him, a good enough dude.  he didn't give me any trouble, though some of the other RA's would be gruff with him.  as with most of them, he acted like the big kid he was.  he played good basketball when allowed to go out for rec.  there was a kind of constant sadness about him, but not something he'd let you see.  mind you, i have no illusions about his 'innocence', i just have no judgment about his guilt.  he was in a facility for criminals in need of chemical-addiction rehabilitation.  likely meant he dabbled in some kind of dealing, definitely that he was caught up in 'the life' to some extent.  but 27 and black in this godforsaken city pretty much means you're dabbling in death shopping in a store with an excellent layaway plan. 

and most of the releases from the time i was there are back in the county jail.  and 3 months isn't enough time for me to sit like some Buddha-sized martyr and think how i failed all these young men, and i don't.  but it makes me think.  and it makes me know something's got to change. something's got to give. 

i'm grateful, i saw my 27 year old son a week ago, he spent part of 3 days with me, we shared food and coffee and television and words.  he is black and alive, and those are not automatically compatible conditions in this world.  i'm grateful i got to know Mr. Jerry Franklin for the time that he had left, and i hope he is blessed with peace for whatever was making him sad that he couldn't talk about.

Mr. Jerry L Franklin, one of my residents this year.  Peace, little brother.