Report From The Overlook
He was just a kid
when the sirens first called his name.
A boy who thought courage
was something you learned by watching.
He wanted to lift people
out of danger when the world shook.
Be the hands that held steady
what everyone else let fall.
He dreamed of steel toed boots,
city streets, real work, real people.
If he showed up when it mattered,
maybe truth would trust him to carry it.
Some truths are carried by hand.
But then a shadow crept in —
slow, deliberate, uninvited.
A doubt settling quietly
in the corners of every room.
Hatred on the airwaves,
lone wolves and broken crowds.
Chaos drifting through antennae
into every living space.
The darkness found him anyway —
living room, bedroom, garage.
He tried to drive away from it,
but the radio followed him home.
Some truths are carried by hand.
He told me how shock jockeys jostled
for airtime and attention,
selling fear like a single
climbing charts it never earned —
How he climbed through broken corridors,
searching for anyone left behind.
Rooms that weren’t rooms anymore,
desks and papers scattered like thoughts.
He found her under the moment’s weight,
lifted her into safety,
carried her out as the world behind them
gave way into smoke and silence.
Later, he sat on the curb,
mask still on, shoulders trembling.
Carrying more than anyone
should ever have to carry.
I carry what the cameras miss,
the weight that never makes the news.
If the world forgets the cost of this,
I’ll remember — because he had to.
Despite everything,
I still seek truth —
to unwind the lies
that secrets weave.
In marble halls,
in voting stalls,
where misdirection
wears a preacher’s grin.
Provocateurs climb the pulpit,
vying for the ratings block.
Chop chop — soundbites and charm,
but he’s witnessed too much harm.
Alone, no one can stop
the ticking of the atomic clock.
But if truth persists,
time can return.
If truth exists,
time is ours.
Some truths are carried by hand.
He finished his story
and looked down at his hands —
calloused, steady,
still trembling from memory.
I should feel something —
awe, sorrow, outrage —
but years of headlines
have worn me thin.
Bad things happen,
and nothing shifts.
They happen again,
and the world barely blinks.
I’ve written endings
that never ended,
filed truths
that changed nothing at all.
But sitting with him —
a man who ran toward fire
when everyone else ran away —
something stirs.
Not hope, not clarity —
just a reminder
that duty still matters
even when the world forgets.
I close my notebook,
feeling the weight of his trust.
And I promise him quietly,
more to myself than to him:
I won’t let this
become a soundbite.
Some truths are carried by hand.
Copyright © Kerry Bernatchez | Year Posted 2026
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