I walked in to school that day and couldn't wait to show my Art Teacher my painting. I knew that he would give me much needed praise for my hard work. My father was somewhat of an artist and taught me about color, shading and basic figure drawing. I would sit and paint with him....he on canvas and me on cardboard. I loved painting with my dad.

Dad had given me a canvas to paint on. I painted a deer, standing in snowy woods. Dad gave me tips but never touched the painting. I painted it all by myself. It was really well done for an eight year old. The snow was laced down on the same side of each tree. The deer was well drawn except the head was a little large. I can still see the painting in my mind.

I walked up proudly to the Teachers desk and handed him my painting. He looked at it for a few seconds and said,"You didn't paint this by yourself, did you?" I replied,"Yes sir,I painted it all by myself." He looked at me angrily and said," Liar, you did not paint this....someone else did and I never want you to bring anything like this to me again...understood!" I shook my head yes and walked back to my seat.

I felt like crying but I couldn't cry. A rage began to build in my heart. An eight year old boy should not be thinking of ripping his Art Teacher's head off and kicking it over the Volley ball net. I felt so lost and alien to my surroundings. I told the truth and was called a liar by someone I deeply respected. I can still see his eyes of anger. I knew that I couldn't tell my father because my father would have confronted the Teacher and then beaten the hell out of the him. I didn't want my dad in jail.

I sat at my desk and at some moment during that day, I looked out the window at the cold gray clouds and cursed the world. I felt something break inside of me and I could feel the shards peircing my soul. The fire and brimstone of God himself would avenge the death of my innocence. I saw myself stand in the winds of destruction as the truth cleansed the world of evil accusers. I was a grown man in the vision and I could feel the harsh forces, blasting dust on my face.

An eight year old boy should not be feeling things like that. When I was four years old, I woke from a nightmare of falling. I sat up in my bed and saw a bright figure at my window. I wasn't afraid...the ghost had a kindly move. I waved and smiled. For the longest time, the ghost simply moved outside my window. It changed forms but remained a bright white. The ghost was telling me something but I didn't understand at the time. The ghost was me. My innocence.

I became an old man in the third grade. I saw the significance and the insignificance of my life in a split second. The universe trembled within me. I felt the wrath and the love of God at the same time for the first time. God to me, is the innocent power of a child. The very power that created all things. This Teacher had stepped into my kingdom with anger and called me a liar. People who abuse children an any manner recieve what I call,"The Rip of God!"

God rips apart their souls from light and casts their shadows to darkness. It's not hell, it's the realm of nothing, they are not even worthy of torture. To hurt the heart of innocence is to hurt God. My curse was on those in the world who would hurt children. I forgave the Teacher, long, long ago but the Teacher will see the moment of my hurt and feel what I felt.

Not long after on the day of November 22, 1963, Preisident John F. Kennedy was assasinated. It was friday and ironically I was in Mrs. Rifle's class. She had the TV on and she was crying hysterically. I remember talking to a girl named Brenda. She was wearing pink tights and a striped blue and white dress. I would talk with Brenda, look up at the TV and then at Mrs. Rifle crying. I was empty....no emotion at all...the President was dead and I didn't care.

Mrs Rifle announced that school was being let out an hour early. Many of us stood up and cheered because we got to go home early. Mrs Rifle scolded us and squalled that our leader was just killed! She punished us with extra homework. I remember wondering why she was so mad at us? I also wondered many times why the Art Teacher was so mad at me.

I knew nothing of justice, murder, the apocalypse or any of the worldly troubles. I knew that I was eight years old....I loved my mom and dad....Jesus was just a name in conversation and the devil was blamed for me putting the cat in the mailbox. Why do I only remember and feel my innocence up to the day I showed my painting? Why did the ghost in my window only visit me once when I was four years old?

I know the answers now, I actually started painting again 35 years later. I still paint like I'm in the third grade. The ghost is my innocence hidden deep behind the window of my soul. It still talks with me from time to time. My ghost is eight years old.