He was old
Cantankerous
And I didn’t always take him seriously
But I knew
The red band of twine
About his forehead
Signified something significant
Beyond what I knew
Some knowledge
And knowing
That carried its own gravitas
And called for respect despite
My incomprehension despite
My white ways
I could see it in the young ones as he moved between them
Leaving stillness and averted eyes in his wake
I can feel it even now
As I write
And remember his name