This Time Orlando

This time there were 49, fifty counting him—one for each star on our flag

This time he came during the dark of night—long before the full heat of the sun rose

He came before the bars closed—before the last call for alcohol was made

He came before the dancers retired to their corners—like boxers in the ring, before the last bell rung

He came before the cock cleared his throat to announce the morning’s coming tide— before the sacrifice was made

He came before the church bells rang and before the choirs took their place above the nave—before the sermons were preached and before their deaths were ignored by pulpits west and east and north and south, all because they were gay

He came filled with anger, heat and hate—pregnant with unresolved fears, running from failure and chasing immortality like a snake

He came, not like the other times, measuring the pulse of the people, taking in the architecture of the place, secretly drinking the musty odors of distant men, dreaming about tomorrow, while hanging around the edges and pretending indifference—this time it was real

He came knowing a sea of lobbyists, a bed of gutless politicians, and a spineless court had paved the road that led him to this place

He came reciting “… and to the republic for which it stands, one nation under god, indivisible, with liberty and justice for all”—he came knowing their lives were in his hands

He came knowing who they were—human beings, living life, seeking love, possessing hope

He came bearing arms—bullets, a rifle, and hand guns—forged in fires and sold by uncaring merchants who defend their tortured constitutional rights to sell instruments of death

He came knowing their blood would flow like the Colorado, the Nile, the Rio Grande, the Mississippi and the Gulf of Mexico

He came not knowing that these souls — red, brown, black and white — would become hurricanes, storms, sandy beaches, peaceful islands, crusty bottom lands, and guides and lights for others during the night

He came not knowing they would become a gospel choir, a mariachi band, a string of southern lights—a living testimony for the redeemed

He came not knowing they would join the others whose lives were taken in airports, newsrooms, office towers, town centers, church basements, theaters, schools, colleges and universities, on subways, military bases, and at race tracks, political rallies, workplaces, and prayer meetings

He came not understanding justice has long arms and a deep memory — she holds court at strange hours and she grants no change of venues

Ralph Wheeler is a writer, storyteller, and retired environmental and landuse attorney. Currently, he resides in California and Mississippi.