By Emmanuel Williams

I met my son Johnny’s mother at the Center for Performing Arts Complex in Downtown Denver almost 10 years ago now. We weren’t attending any show. In fact, it was the middle of the morning and nothing was playing at that time of day. You see, we were two homeless nomads whose paths crossed because I noticed she was just as lost as I was for something to do with the day.

We were physical from day one. It was magical, thrilling, and adventurous. Eventually we went on normal dates. She stayed with me in a home abandoned during its renovations on a carpet in the attic while our nomad road dogs slept on the main floor. All my idea. Each of us spent a night in jail for our bravery.

But there was one thing about Sandra that will stay with me until the day I die, even if neither of us will ever see each other again after our son became a government possession due to her attitude toward police officers. She still has a way of finding herself in jail more often than not. But while she was mine, she had a habit of taking my arm as we walked, no matter where we were going. And in half a second, I was in knight-mode.

It first happened when we were on the 16th Street Mall passing the former Adam’s Mark Hotel (now known as The Sheraton) toward the United Artist movie theater. Across the street from the Starbucks she softly slipped her hand on my bicep and stroked the arm with her thumb as we walked. Instinctively my opposite hand rose to stroke her hand in return, and we just kept it up. Everywhere.

It made me want to protect her ferociously. She had shown not only that she wanted to be on my arm, but that she belonged there. That some sort of physical contact was required even if we were in conversation. 

By far the best moments were when we strolled along without a word, a hand in my pocket, and the other on duty, sometimes interlocked with her fingers, truly enjoying each other’s company.

When our son was born I was in jail myself, so I didn’t get to name him what I wanted, “Sebastian”. But I guess “Johnny” fits on a birth certificate a little easier. I’m just glad to have made a love-child, if it’s the only one I’ll ever have.