He was a martyr, an advocate, a hero, a beacon of light, a legacy like no other. Liverpool was his

inception and, from there, things could only go uphill. Despite a less-than-amiable upbringing, he cruised

to success as the invasion began. From a quarryman to

a beatle to his own man, he was the father to two countries and we spent so much time with him. At the park together, we always gave peace a chance, imagined what xanadu would be like and paid homage to the working class heroes as we celebrated the end of war, looking at cloud 9 in the rearview mirror.

December 8th was the shot heard round the pond. Words failed to describe the mass hysteria and utter despair that flowed through the streets day in and day out. The deafening silence was exacerbated only by the lack of recourse reverberating throughout the world. Sometimes, I still go back and read chapter 27 whenever it suits me.

The perpetrator still draws breath, having spent nearly three decades in a state of supermax. Though we can never absolve him, we can still find it in ourselves to offer our forgiveness. It’s exactly the way he would have wanted it.