Happy birthday, Bubba

Dear Bubba,

I was talking to Therman this morning and he reminded me that today is your birthday. He shared a letter he wrote to you and I sat on the other end of the phone and silently, softly, cried. I miss you. I think about you often. On my mantle at home I have a dashiki that I think Herman gave to you. I have it folded there because it is my way of physically seeing you in my home. I always see you in my mind.

I miss you so much, Bubba. I know that I still have you. I have you in my heart and memory. I have you in the many stories I share about you with my son. Yes, I have a son, Uraeus. You may remember his grandmother, Celestine, from your childhood. You were older but she and my mother were good friends. I tell Uraeus many stories about you.

I remember when I was in elementary school you used to write letters to me from jail. I was always happy, proud, honored to receive your letters. You told me about books to read and to always dig for the truth. I remember you told me that the truth was something that I would always have to search for. I never forgot that. I will never forget you or the conversations we shared.

I am living in Georgia now. I still haven't been able to answer the question as to why Georgia? I don't know. It was a Spirit move. I was following guidance and it led me here.

You were such an important person (man) in my life. I always felt...understood by you. I could express ideas with you and always get at least a good conversation about them. You were one of the most intelligent men I knew. The most intelligent a lot of people knew. Not just because you were so smart, by way of books. But I remember listening to stories about how you defended yourself in court and won. You probably understood the law better than most lawyers.

You cared, Bubba. Cared about your family, siblings, parents, friends, the people. Our people. Black people. You taught me to care too. I have an understanding about what it is to be and love being black because you cared. You cared about the brothas and sistas on the street with you. They loved you for that. You were their "Brotha Bob."

I remember once I took you to the liquor store and when you came out you asked me to give your "friend" a ride home. You spoke to her about her family and old times. I found out later that you didn't even know her but that you didn't want me to feel uncomfortable about a stranger in my backseat. You did things like that. I allowed you to put me in situations like that too often! I know you loved me, Bubba.

You loved us all. Thank you, Bubba. Thank you Robert Davis. Thank you Brotha Bob.

Robin