“And Still“

by Kate Letterman Conway

A man will die today.
Some will call it justice,
Some will call it a replication
Of the very crime being punished.
And still, a man will die today.
A man, a felon, and offender,
A criminal, an addict, a murder,
And still, before any of those labels
Clung to him, leeching his humanity,
He was
Simply
My baby.

To those who never cradled him,
Admired the way his long lashes rested,
Perched upon his chubby cherubic cheeks,
He might be just another
Criminal who had it coming.
They did not have the chance to behold the way
His little boy eyes widened in wonderment
Of the simplest beauties this life has to offer,
A butterfly soaring through the air,
The fleeting sight of a field of wild violets
Through the rear window on a trip out of town.
They didn’t witness his transformation
From sensitive, free-spirited boy,
To troubled teen,
To delinquent, to addict,
To convict,
To murderer.

They didn’t see
The manner by which he was first trapped,
In a prison of society’s making,
The machismo, the rigidity, the aggression,
He came to believe was synonymous with
“Man,”
Whether that was gleaned from
A father who didn’t stay,
The media he consumed,
And still, it weighed him down,
a shroud of shame,
Which hardened scrap by scrap
Into unfeeling armor.
The pain of trauma spread like poison,
And gave way to
The desire to numb the suffering,
The need to repress all vulnerability,
The demand to feed the perpetually ravenous
Monster of your addiction.
And from there,
Each bad judgement call,
Each reckless choice,
Each second chance squandered,
Was like falling dominos
Leading straight to death row.

Despite any trauma, any hardships,
My son’s crimes,
My son’s sins are
His cross to carry,
His burden to bear
And still, I can’t help but wonder
If he carried the weight of my sins
On his shoulders too.
I did the best I could with what I had,
The best I could with what I knew,
And still, I know my son deserved better,
All people do.
A life of poverty, violence,
A lion’s share of strife,
A life rife with dashed dreams,
Culminating in a state-sanctioned slaughter—
Any mother’s worst nightmare.
And still,
Throughout this trial
Of trials and appeals,
Convictions and denials,
I have accompanied him.

On this day,
The final sunrise
My son will be earthside,
I watch myself, as if from above,
Go through the motions,
I listen to the coffee percolating,
With no memory of switching on the pot.
I make the hours-long drive
In deafening silence.
With weary feet I walk,
Make my way through security,
This one final time.
I wait,
Both dreading and dreaming of
These final moments I will spend with you.
What can I say now?
What are my words worth
If they cannot turn back time,
Cannot revive what’s long been lost?

And still,
We speak, we joke,
We laugh, we weep,
And weep
And
Weep.

A mother’s love is boundless,
And still, I fear my stores of strength
Are dwindling
My knees knock as I move toward
The gallery.
I am no Mary,
My son is certainly no Jesus,
And still, I can’t help but feel connected,
Can’t help but wonder,
Is this how she felt
Witnessing her son,
Being prodded to his death,
The shame, the humiliation?

The onlookers of this execution,
Split in two,
I know who is assembled on the other side
Of this wall,
Can feel the anger, the outrage
Radiating through the cinder blocks.
To them, my son is no human, but
A vessel for their vengeance,
Their hope for freedom from the
Tightly grasping grip of their grief.
And still,
This perspective is deeply familiar.
There was a time when I would say
Anyone who hurt my baby would pay
And pay dearly.
Was blind, but now I see
The paradox in this
Imitation of the crime,
This killing of the killer.

I pray, I grapple
To make meaning
Of what feels like meaningless violence.
I pray that his death might bring
Some relief, some respite
To those he hurt,
Including himself.
My heart falls out of my body
As they open the curtains,
As he utters his final words,
Barely a whisper,
Of hope and love and forgiveness.
He looked in my eyes,
Mouth forming
“I love you, Mama”
One final time
Before the poison filled his veins.
I watched as he twitched,
Until they closed the curtain,
I dared not look away.

And still,
At the hands of state,
Under the cover of darkness,
A man died today.