It all happened very quickly. Two nights ago a friend texted that he had an extra ticket for the Stevie Wonder concert here in Baltimore. Last night he and his wife picked me up, and we made the ten minute drive the arena.
The house lights went down, the stage lights came on, and out he walked, with Michelle on his left arm and Barack on his right. And you know what the two of the said? Nothing.
Because kings and queens bow down before Him.
Stevie talked about love and togetherness. He got everyone, all fourteen thousand of us, clapping. Michelle was on the beat. Barack was a little behind it, looking more nervous than perhaps anyone’s ever seen him in public. Finally, Wonder instructed the president: “Barack, say ‘Hey.’” Obama leaned into Stevie’s mic and said, “Hey.” Nothing more. The place erupted.
The former first couple then helped Wonder onto his piano bench, and Obama quipped: “I’m not here to say anything tonight. I’m just here to make sure Stevie gets to his seat.” Wonder made a few more jokes and then finally dismissed them. And off then went, stage right.
What followed was a two-and-a-half hour show with a band that ranged from about 25–40 pieces. There was a five-piece horn section, half-a-dozen backup singers, and an at least eight-piece string section, along with three percussionists, two guitarists, and a bassist. And don’t forget a couple of numbers where he brought out the Morgan State University Choir, fully robed.
I had never seen Stevie Wonder in concert before, and now I can say my life is a little more complete. That one person could have so much talent, and combine it with a message of joy, unity, and honesty, just enough righteousness, and even a little impishness, leading people to be their best selves, can be overwhelming. It’s not often that a cynical, old bastard such as myself believes himself to be witnessing human brilliance, but Steveland Hardaway Morris is radiant.
Hugh Warren, "Shadows On The Wall" (2020)
Death has stalked me of late, claiming those whom I was once close to, or who remained closest to those who are closest to me.
A friend from graduate school. My father’s cousin. The brother of an old and dear friend. A long time neighbor around the corner.
Four men who hailed from Iowa, North Carolina, the Bronx, and Baltimore. I knew them in those places, as well as in Nebraska and West Virginia.
A teacher, a business owner, a plumber, a dock manager.
Two of them were grandfathers, one had a step daughter, and two widows are left behind. Two of them never divorced, one never married, and one had multiple marriages.
Most were in their early 60s, one in his mid-70s.
Heart attack. Cancer. Cirrhosis. Probably a another heart attack.
The specter of death is lurking about me, close enough to draw tears, but far enough away as to leave my dearest loved ones unclaimed. At least lately. It is almost inconceivable that someone my age, assuredly closer to death than birth, has not lost the near and dear. I have, of course. But not lately, and not many. I am more fortunate than I could ever ask to be, rolling, rolling, rolling, and mostly dodging craps.
My father, just over seven years ago, but even he lived a fair bit longer than anyone who knew him might have guessed. Three grandparents whom I loved (a fourth when I was still quite small), but of course grandparents.
The man from Iowa whom I met in Nebraska, and who lived in West Virginia, an officer, a gentleman, and a scholar. A sweet man whom everyone loved and admired. He is the closest friend I’ve lost in my lifetime. And I’d not seen him in a decade. And this is not from a lack of friends. I am luck to have good friends. And there have been some scares, accidents survived, cancers beaten, heart attacks resuscitated.