From Jester To King XIII

When the child cries the backlog of pain and the hot stinging tears welling then falling. When the child cries, each movement acute, each overt expression. The child cries from the hurt funnelled down which was thrown through towards him. Down through generations. The child bemoans unbridled unfairness, wanting not having, hoping not getting, promised but not given. The child sincere as innocent victim. The child, grief not yet cankered as anger, grief tinted with anger, where anger slowly approaches. The child of grief still able to show it. At least he can show it.

And when the child cries, foot thunderclaps floor, heaves a full belly breath for the next intake of screaming. The child as a shaman exercising his exorcism. The child wonders why, does not know why, wonders why, only wants to know why. Why why why why to the nth degree why. The cries of the child, the cries of old souls turning over and over.

But Laura doesn’t know, doesn’t know why he’s crying. Just overtired. Pretends not to know because she really does know. Because if she knew why he’s crying, she’d know her own anger and explode in a fury.

So she hides from the child as if herself not still children.

Hear the child. Your final chance. Let him beat out the pain so it’s not pushed in the next one. All pain endeth here. Child speaks for parents and grandparents and every single great great great forefather there ever was ever. These tears are for all. Can’t you just? Just what? Please. Just listen or look, see, see what it takes and all pain is subsiding. Please listen, hold me. What are they doing in their not-looking, not-being, not-holding, not-waiting. Not-loving, what’s all this commotion? Tears of a million children, never again.