“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.

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