When days get bad within my mind,
I travel back to another time. The
fog clears, the memory unfolds to a
gentle soul, a man among men.
I was only a child but he was my friend.
He was child of a slave woman, he was
The Masters son.
Everyone called him Big Willie, though
when I knew him he had shriveled with
old age, a religious man, he could read
the bible without ever turning a page.
Big Willie looked upon life steadily, he
felt alive and whole, he road an old
rusty bicycle wherever he would go.
He lived in a little house on my daddy’s
land, they respected each other, man
We buried Big Willie one cold gloomy
day, I did not understand why my best
friend had to go away. Daddy placed a
marker upon his grave, when he bought
it he looked at me asking besides his
name what should it say.
An imaginary child even in those days, of
my childhood friend I knew exactly what I
wanted the marker to display.
“IN HIS YOUTH HE WAS NEITHER DULL NOR
WILD, HE WAS KNOW AS BIG WILLIE THE