Splattered Red

He was a sweet, young man. He was a senior in high school, with dreams to go to college and become a doctor so that he could help other Black men feel comfortable when they needed help.

He was helpful, like that.

He offered to mow my lawn after my wife passed away and I couldn’t find the energy to take care of myself, let alone the house. He did that for months, and once the wind became chilled and snow began to fall, he started shoveling my driveway, too.

It was there that he died. Was killed. He had a shovel in his gloved hands and a bright red hat on his head. I hadn’t realized it at first, but it was eerily the same shade of blood.

He was mistaken for a criminal, come to steal from an old, defenseless woman, they told me. They didn’t realize he was so young, due to his larger stature. They had no idea he lived in the neighborhood, on the richer part of town.

But I knew that it was all just excuses, one they scrambled for after they realized blood stained the snow beneath him.

He was killed for nothing but the color of his skin.

The snow never stopped, not once, since his body was removed from my property a few days ago, and I couldn’t leave even if I wanted to.

Now when I look out my window at crisp white, all I can see is splattered red.