loving music WRITING

Town Crier


“Hear ye! Hear ye! Be on the lookout for a fella by the name of George Gross. He’s a pedophile at large, and though his birth name has preceded his deeds, let this not dissuade you from the seriousness of his crimes. He is a black man, approximately five feet seven inches tall weighing sixteen stones. He has brown eyes, a scar on his right cheek in the shape of a crescent moon, and a tattoo of an Ankh on his left forearm.

He is to be assumed armed and dangerous, so do not approach. Instead, call the authorities and let them do whatever is necessary to take him down!”

My soul tells me his is no longer alive, if ever it was. He was only one of ‘many’, but back then I was not equipped with the voice of a town crier. Had I realized the sound from my lungs was a voice, I would have cried out the crimes committed in his name. That pain no longer exists. All that remains is shit, like the kind removed from shrimp before it’s cooked. The experience left behind black strings of edible sorrow, a flavor that when eaten can’t be distinguished from clean or dirty except by those with splendid palates. As I write this, I don’t remember which one he was, nor which age he entered. I think I was six, but clarity after a quarter century seems a silly thing to seek.

Folks need to take responsibility for their children, and not assume the Creator protects them from harm, because He doesn’t. Folks need to teach their loved ones how to turn their harm into Love, lest it be turned into something else, something Gross and equally cruel. That pain no longer exists, but the memory – it’s forever mine.

The beauty?

Anyone can turn their memories into powerful healing; for themselves and for others. All that lasts when the pain is gone is Love.

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