The King

I can remember the day Elvis died. 

I remember it almost clearly. 

My siblings and I were over our Grandma's house on a summer's eve. 

It was the weekend. 

We were there because my mom was going out. 

Grandmom was babysitting.   

                                

It was a beautiful warm evening and we were in bed for the night. 

In bed in the evening? 

My grandma was old school. 

My momma, too. 

I don't have to wonder where momma got it from. 

I can remember the both of them having us in bed before the sun was even down. 

Often. 

                                 

It was a mid-August evening. 

It was a lazy kind of night. 

The sky more light blue than dark blue but both blues were mixed together. 

My grandma was in the living room watching the news. 

But the television was loud enough for us girls to hear the news that Elvis was dead. 

                             

I had grow up watching Elvis in movies and listening to his songs. 

But I had also heard the stories of his racist behavior

So by the time his death came I could only remember him as he was in his early clean and sober days

So in a way

he was dead already to me. 

Which meant that his death was sort of distant from me at that point.  

But as I lay in the bed I heard my grandma start to quietly cry. 

My grandma was a strong black woman. 

She was firmly black and proud but even though Elvis had turned into a racist disappointment she still cried for him. 

Odd, huh?  

But not really. 

The young Elvis of the past was a female's dream. 

A handsome sexy singing man with a devilish smile. 

Which woman could resist that?

My grandma was a strong, quiet and proud black woman

But

She was still a woman. 

And Elvis was Elvis. 

                                 

There is no other way to describe him. 

His passing never help us but his presence did. 

We have to give credit where credit is do. 

My grandma did. 

I can't really remember her crying any other time in my life. 

I am sure she must have shed a sad tear but in private. 

I can still remember that night even though I nowhere near the age of ten. 

Hmm. 

It was a beautiful evening. 

The blue black sky shining outside the bedroom window. 

The bugs were buzzing and the crickets cricketing. 

As I lay in the bed my grandma cried a little that Elvis had died. 

                                 

I miss my grandma. 

She was wonderful. 

I miss Elvis. 

He lived his life and shared it with the world. 

He was a racist

but

Who are we to judge him?