King of Soul

May 4, 1970 in Kent, Ohio Why is this happening? Why had he come here? Why had he followed Kevin all the way to damn Ohio, to see this? Donnie didn’t want to see this; yet he stood numbly, transfixed by the horror, surrounded by these other people, people he didn’t know, strangers, all strangers, and yet bound together now, estranged together in some otherworldly covenant, the shedding of blood, the covenant now, unspoken, unspecified except for the wailing of the witnesses, the onslaught of the rage of these onlookers and now he was there with them in this. . . sacrifice, holy moment, passing of this soul into beyond. Someone called him Jeff. Ahead of him and to the right, a group was attempting to lift a big guy who had fallen and was trying to right himself, but futility, futility, and the259 helpers were powerless to upright him and so they desisted and the young man lay on the ground, still breathing, moaning, suspended in a state of agony somewhere between life and death, somewhere between heaven and hell. This must be hell. Cousin Will was dying, but surely he would not go to hell, because he was — he didn’t look — like a man who would be in hell, he looked like he didn’t belong in this state of suspended between life and death. And there were others. But Donnie did not want to see. He had had enough. His feet began to move, walk. Shuffling, he wandered away, away from the noise and the pain and suffering and the death, away from the death, away from the strangers gathered in their strangeness; let them have it, let them have it all; dragging feet carried him through the parking lot, across grass, past cars, past people yelling, crying, going on, going away, going going gone.

On a sidewalk, moving along on the sidewalk, here’s a street, cars going by, he’s in a town, a strange town, never been here, shops, normal places stillexisting on the edge of this uncommon tragedy, how could these normal places still be . . . traffic lights changing red, green, yellow. Red. He would never forget the Red. Sleepwalking on the sidewalk, unfamiliar people, faces, here’s a dime store, there’s a clothing store, drug store, here’s a church. Door open, a church. Donnie lifts his feet, lifts his eyes, ascending the steps, nine steps up and now he’s in the church, sleepwalking between wooden benches, floor slick and polished, scent of wood, wax, candles burning. Donnie is traveling through the pews, along the aisle. Ahead, there’s unclothed man hanging on the cross up above, with thorny crown of kingly blood, soul tortured by the state of this world. His face in agony, it appears as that face Donnie had just seen, only minutes before in the parking lot,. Same bloody sacrifice. He is as a lamb, slain, because of what we do. What’s it to you? http://www.careyrowland.com