
The echo of Martin’s last words ring in my head. It rained that night. A drizzle. Not a downpour, just a Memphis, Tennessee drizzle. It seemed like he knew. It seemed like someone had let him know. His words that night would be his last. The mountaintop. Not getting there with us. But, as a people, we would get there. Somehow we would get to the top of that mountain without Martin. He told us that, that night, his last night. And we believed him.
I can’t get the image out of my head of the bag of Skittles and the can of ice tea falling to the ground. It rained that night too. A drizzle. Not a downpour, just a Sanford, Florida drizzle. Damn, I wish he knew. I wish he knew that this would be his last. The game. His last game. Kobe. LeBron. D Wade. Just a quick walk to the store and back. Put the hoodie up ’cause of the drizzle. Pop. One Pop. Young Martin. Silent. I wish he knew 44 years later, we hadn’t made it to the top of the mountain.

