September Rain
September rain.
It is the middle of the year and I have the desire to escape.
A holiday.
An impulse purchase.
Something deliberate, yet opaque.
The separation from previous partners,
my cleaning frenzy time of year,
a clear and precise pattern,
a never ending anxiousness and fear.
16 years later, a letter confirms what September meant.
And, I can acknowledge,
My neural pathways programmed without consent.
The 18th of September
in the back of a court room I did sit
awaiting sentencing charges,
For a crime a family friend had commit
The anger in my blood.
The sadness in my heart
Yet, I quickly hid the letter
As felt guilty I had took part.
I was ashamed about what happened
Despite it being 26 years later
The need to keep it a secret.
As if I was still being a traitor.
It had taken me 9 years,
To stand up and jail this person
I had risked children’s lives
out of fear and disconcertion.
unfortunately young children
Experience sexual abuse everyday.
And carry the secret
As feel a role they have to play
It is not about speaking out
for sympathy or to be seen as a victim
It’s about having strength and comfort
To know abuse does not depict them.
To know that abuse of any sort
does not define who we are
and nothing for which we should be ashamed
Despite he ugly imprinted scar.
So, as a mother of two
and a step mother of three
I say the unspoken is no longer
acceptable to me.
I hope collectively we can give strength
and comfort to those that still haven’t found their voice.
As speaking up about such a secret
Is truly a tough yet needed choice.
Note. James Harris was free by 2007.
Yet, 26 years later my inner 7-8year old still holds this crime.
Copyright © Mockingbird Stevenson | Year Posted 2018
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