He came in from another long day on his summer job and because I’d been home a few minutes I had some news. Not new news. Just same old exile news. “We killed another black man today.” He sighed. I sighed. I’d swear the kitchen sink we stood at sighed. One of us, I can’t remember which, said, “Well that’s no good.” And we sighed again. The sorrowful sighing of a father and son. Does it count for anything at the end of a long summer’s day? I don’t know. He walked away to claim a shower while I tinkered at something for dinner. While the waters of Babylon rinsed the dirt from my son’s body I thought of Zion, and sighed again at our captivity. If I’d had a harp I would have stepped outside, and hung it in a willow’s tears.