I wish… I could have a glass of wine with Paul Robeson.

by Chandra Martin

I wish…
I could have a glass of wine
with Paul Robeson.

Not on a stage.
Not beneath bright lights.
Not before an audience
waiting for him to speak.

Just us.

A bottle of ten-year port
between us,

fruit,

mortadella,

cheese,

and enough time
to talk.

I’d ask him about college.

I’d ask him
if he ever felt the need
to constantly look over his shoulder.

I’d tell him about London, England—

about my family’s vacation there—

and maybe,
for a while,
we’d simply talk.

About life.

About London.

About depression.

The kind that doesn’t always announce itself.

The kind that settles quietly
inside the body
and asks you to carry it
while the world keeps moving.

Then I’d turn on the television.

And America
would walk into the room.

I’d look at him.

I’d see the tears
in his eyes

as he watched
the images of this America,

as he listened
to the words
of our current leadership.

He’d reach into his pocket.

A handkerchief.

He’d wipe the tears
from his eyes.

Then he’d look at me
and say,

“The nation has changed,
but it’s still the same.”

I’d say nothing.

Because what could I say?

Then he’d look at me again.

“Was it all for naught?”

I couldn’t answer.

So instead,

I’d thank him.

I’d thank him
for his fearlessness
in the fight for equality.

I’d praise his accomplishments.

And I’d tell him
that I first saw him
in Show Boat
when I was a young girl.

I’d tell him
that even though he was singing
such a sad,

such an oppressive song—

he looked like a king to me.

Like a lion
suppressing a roar
until the time is right.

A roar
that would bring mankind
to its knees.

He’d smile.

I’d smile back.

We’d finish our wine.

And eventually,

he’d tell me
it was time for him to go.

But before he left,

I’d ask him
to sing Dvořák’s Goin’ Home
just for me.

And I’d get lost
in the sound
of his bass-baritone voice—

deep,

warm,

carrying something
that seemed to reach
beyond the room,

beyond the television,

beyond time.

When the song ended,

he’d stand.

And he’d give me
a warm, grandfatherly hug—

one filled with wisdom,

and courage,

and all the things
you cannot learn
from a history book.

He’d thank me
for the hospitality.

For the conversation.

For the wine.

For listening.

And then—

he’d disappear

in a puff of smoke.

Just like that.

I’d sit there,

alone,

with the empty glasses,

the television still glowing,

the silence returning
to the room.

And I’d realize

I had just spent an evening
with a man
who belonged to history—

and yet,

for a few impossible hours,

had simply been

a man in my living room.

A man who had cried.

A man who had questioned.

A man who had sung.

A man who had smiled.

A man who had hugged me
before disappearing
into the night.

And now,

I am alone

with my feelings.