You Can’t Judge a Book by its Cover

I remembered seeing men in white paint over the black graffiti on the concrete near the newly furnished playground in 2015. It once read “R.I.P. Sleepy.” I stood near the trailer parks across the playground while some other folks joined me in watching.

“I bet he was no good anyways,” an old lady said while shivering because the wind blew harder. She wrapped her stitched blanket around her more tightly. “At least some of the trash is gone now.”

I remembered how his gang’s territory reached over to the park in 1999. I remembered how we first met and how I lingered over to the park because it was a park and I was a kid and I wanted to play on the swings and my parents were too busy to take me. I remembered how the gang didn’t like me on their turf and pulled out a knife. I remembered my friend with that knife. I remembered how he went toward me, knelt down, and stabbed me with the handle. I remembered how he made it look like he got me while his hand gripped the blade. I remembered how he told me to place my hand over my stomach and then he wiped some of his blood over my shirt. I remembered running into the blackberry bushes, racing home, sneaking in, and throwing out my shirt so my mom wouldn’t worry. I remembered seeing my friend out my window later that day at some picnic table behind my apartment. I remembered how I went to the fridge to bring Kool-Aid and two sippy cups as a thank you. I remembered him telling me to stay away kid. I remembered how I never let up, so I waited by the picnic table for him anyways. I remembered him giving up, so he told me his life story and how he ran away from his foster home. I remembered not being able to tell if everything he said was true because he had trust issues. I remembered him taking me to the library for the first time in my life where I read Spot the Dog. I remembered him telling me to read Goosebumps. I remembered him laughing when I shook my head because I didn’t want nightmares. I remembered him telling me to not judge a book by its cover. I remembered him reading the book to me at the kiddie table where it looked uncomfortable to read. I remembered moving from the apartments and him telling me to visit someday. I remembered years going by and I never once went back to the picnic table, so now all my memories of him are being erased by the men in white who painted over my friend in 2015.

But I never said a word to that lady, or even tried to stop the men in white. I just walked back to my Nissan Altima and cried as I drove back home. All I thought about on the drive back was how I should’ve told off that old lady and how I should’ve grabbed the paint rollers away from those men. Instead, I stirred up some Kool-Aid and poured out a cup for him. Maybe if I make Kool-Aid enough times, he’ll forgive me for letting that lady think he was only trash.

I’m so sorry Sleepy.