Hatred's Heartache

April 13, 2009
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Her hands shook with each vibration of the piano's keys and each one reminded her of the passing seconds she would have to live without her son. The cries from the surrounding mourners were nothing like the ones in the dreams that kept her awake at night. In each one his body was crumpled in a corner just like they had found him, but this time the words GAY were printed in neat red script on his forehead. In her dreams, the shot was not quick and painless like the police had said but instead those red words on his forehead slowly and painfully seeped into his veins until it reached his heart and stopped it forever.
It was her turn. They were all waiting. The pew creaked as she stood up weakly and staggered to the podium. Finally she began: Many of you are here today to pay your respects to my son and for that I am very grateful, but today is not about how many seats are filled. Today is about how many are not, for it is in those seats that hate resides. My son did not die because he deserved to. He died because someone wanted him to, because someone took his life. The blood where hatred lies is what spilled my son's.”
Her lips quivered as if struck by an untimely frost and her irrepressible tears exploded in the silent room. Her body finally gave way as grief began its unrelenting beating. A man in the front row quickly broke away from his pew and caught her before she hit the floor. He slowly ushered her back to her seat, almost as if teaching her how to walk again. Her eyes went wild and her trembling lips parted "They shot him. They shot my baby."

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