Coconut Turn About by the Superintendent of the Rec Center

Meanwhile, back at the ranch, we're singing and hanging out at the rec center,
exploring the hilly west side with big houses and wooden porches.
And a nineteen year old is murdered at 1pm on the South side of the water after an argument.
"Something's wrong with Baltimore."
I watch two brothers, artists, actors, dancers, walk away from me down the blue corridor, past the ceramic kiln, past the crew cleaning the bathrooms, toward the gymnassium with the dance troop, and I think the same thing.
I think that if they aren't here and they are walking outside these walls, by themselves, or WORSE with a group, their safety can't be taken for granted.

Mr. Furlow knows it, my new friend that reminds me of my father and my brother (if you could mix them both together). I walk with him and smile as a toddler toddles quickly in the opposite direction. Mr. Furlow takes his large hand and gently places it on top of the toddlers head. He times it perfectly like a magic game of whack a mole. The little one stops and like a Reiki master of Louissiana, wills the child to change direction as if the tiny head is part of a huge mechanism, a coconut-sized weathervane that must point north.

And he smiles, and I can hear the echo of a silent whimsical giggle behind his eyes, as he takes his hand from the top of the child's head and he toddles back in the right direction.