T A K E A W A Y

The boy lived at home with his mama but was more like a man at twenty-two. Getting high every night was his thing, his last thing to be precise.

His mama found him the next morning. He was blue, stiff and the needle was still in his arm. She didn’t call on anyone right away, excepting God.

She wanted confirmation of his presence, that He was holding her boy in his arms. More than that she wanted release from the hangover that had gripped her soul for the last twenty-two years.

Her boy had never known a ball without a chain.