“Sonny’s witness” by Sasha on her kitchen floor


Tuesday September 25, 2012
1:02am
5 minutes
Sonny’s blues
James Baldwin


Sonny keeps talking about the witnesses but I’m more concerned about the murder itself. The act of. The killing. Sonny killed Bo. One minute Bo was talking about Pierre Trudeau and the next he was shot in the head by a Model 92. It wasn’t that Sonny hated Bo or even that he didn’t have compassion for Bo’s predicament.

Sonny and Bo shared an aunt but weren’t cousins. They would spend summers on the canola farm and get into a load of mischief as little boys. Sonny was taller. Bo was stronger. Sonny was smarter. Bo was a charmer with the ladies. Sonny swore like a trucker. Bo swore like a trucker.

In their twenties Sonny and Bo shared an apartment on Main St. with an aquamarine shag carpet and a record player that was always playing something. Sonny was working at the guitar store and Bo managed an Italian restaurant right downtown. It wasn’t long before he brought coke home. Sonny dove deeper than Bo.

The summer Ursula had the twins Bo was up the interior of BC logging. Sonny helped her with the babies, rocking them late at night and feeling them bottles of Nestle formula. Bo would call and there would be a bad connection and Sonny would hold Ursula when she cried.

“Sonny’s witness” by Julia at Dufferin station


Tuesday September 25, 2012
10:26pm
5 minutes
Sonny’s blues
James Baldwin


Taryn could sing. Boy could she. Hand on her heart, mouth open, eyes closed, national anthem shit.
She had the guts but the glory is what she wanted. Not because it would validate her the way fame helps do sometimes, but because she was in need of what a crowd cheering gives.
What a gift. My sister. My sister, Taryn. Did I mention she sings? At the top of her lungs on the subway too. In front of churches, drowning out a small girl’s choir solo.
She belts it out so you can trace her heart’s shape in the air with your finger, that’s how raw it is.
That’s how much of herself she puts in. She’s not scared of her talent either. No. It’s strange. She loves it more than life itself; more than Cameron, her high school sweetheart; more than God, her first love. She loves to sing and it’s in her blood. I get it. I love to watch her. My little baby sister who I used to help form bubbles out of gum, or who I taught to read when she was three.
I didn’t teach her singing. That’s what she taught me.
Bringing her utmost truth and putting it to a melody. I wouldn’t have known that without her.
Song bird-sing at your wedding, funeral, birthday, anniversary party good. The part of your life you’ve always wanted showcased in song.