ACROSS THE ALLEY

Last winter, I watched his finger spell out HI through the frost on his bedroom window. He wrote each letter backwards, and then waved.
I heard the ice cracking as I jimmied open my pane. “My daddy was a starter in the Negro Leagues,” Willie told me, “and he says someday I’m going to pitch in the majors.”

“Grandpa was a great violinist in the old country,” I tell Willie late that night. “But there was a war and the Nazis broke all of his fingers and worked him like a slave. Grandpa says he was lucky to escape with his life.”
Willie’s real quiet now and I wonder if I said something wrong. Maybe he doesn’t know about the Nazis.
“My great-granddaddy was a slave too,” Willie finally says. “I never knew any white folk that were.” Then we’re both real quiet until Willie decides that it’s time we went to bed.

I take a break to practice my own windup so I pass my violin out the window to Willie.

I take a break to practice my own windup so I pass my violin out the window to Willie.