In the middle of my concrete playground; Chevy Impalas and

Mercury Grand Marquis shuffle around. Ole heads arguing about

Sunday’s Eagles game drowns out the Sound of Philadelphia on

the radio. And the smell of Menthol cigarette butts sitting in

Bud heavy cans covers the air.

ABS serves to keep the spirit of my childhood and my beloved

cousin, Ahmad, alive. Like so many young men in the city, his life

was cut short before he truly had the chance to live. He was

intelligent, he was gracious, and he was

wise beyond his years.

His face continues to shine in my memory. Though I can’t hug him,

hear his voice, or sit with him on our Mum Mum’s steps anymore —

I can still feel him. I can still feel that time. Now with ABS,

you can feel it too.

This is a tribute to the memories. To Ahmad. To the city. And the

indelible mark they’ve left on my life.