KYLE

There were pictures on every wall along a pathway to finality. The smell of flowers, better placed elsewhere with other intent gave off a nauseating scent that could not be understood, only tolerated. The music was deafening, a country and western feel with words flowing through the air about tragedy and courage and hope and sorrow awkwardly blending with plunking and twanging guitar notes that were sharp and painful, although they were not suppose to be. People were quiet except for the wailing in the distance that grew louder with each step closer. There were occasional nods of recognition and similar purpose as the march droned on as if heading toward the pyre. Men in stiff suits and serious faces wandered about and stood at posts like crossing guards or those who keep things moving after an accident or navigating a construction site. They didn't have those road signs or flashlights but rather pointing fingers and almost always a hand on a shoulder or back encouraging a lost visitor to find their place in the march. They kindly and slowly moved closer to their ear or face to whisper, "go right this way" as if the reality could have been a pathway to a concert or some other event that required precise navigation. Except, at this event, no one really wanted to complete the march- no one wanted to arrive.
One by one the marching continued. The injustice became too large to absorb. The scents and sounds and sights were a stimulus overload, yet somehow, the brave marchers marched right in to the heart of it. It was why they were there. The hugs were fierce and much longer than a usual hug. Hands clasped and were sweaty and cold and clammy. Words were exchanged that make no real sense, given the levity. It's just what people say at times like this. Eye contact hurts, like lasers cutting into one's pain center, as if in a look,or a stare, a deeper meaning is somehow communicated. I don't even know if that is possible. And then it's over, the march has ended, and people leave silently having been counted.
His name is Kyle. He is ten. He will never be eleven.

Gail
peace.....