Hoodie January Gill O'Neil A gray hoodie will not protect my son from rain, from the New England cold. I see the partial eclipse of his face as his head sinks into the half-dark and shades his eyes. Even in our quiet suburb with its unlocked doors, I fear for his safety — the darkest child on our street in the empire of blocks. Sometimes I don’t know who he is anymore traveling the back roads between boy and man. He strides a deep stride, pounds a basketball into wet pavement. Will he take his shot or is he waiting for the open-mouthed orange rim to take a chance on him? I sing his name to the night, ask for safe passage from this borrowed body into the next and wonder who could mistake him for anything but good. --

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