I moved today. I moved and came across this briefcase.
A relative gave it to me too many years ago. I don’t remember the relative who once called this thing his own; nor do I recall why he felt that such a thing needed to be owned by me. Nevertheless, it has been with me ever since it exchanged hands. It went with me to Botswana in 1987, to United Kingdom in 1988, to Sweden in 1989, to New York City in 1990, to Harrisburg in 1991, to Pioneer Square in 1992, to Sand Point in 1994, and to the Central District in 1996. Somewhere along the way I stopped opening the briefcase. Why? Because somewhere along the way I began to fear that one of the letters it contained had this opening: “To Whom It May Concern: Keep This Nigger-Boy Running.”