It's Been 3 Years... Now what?

Back in December 2009, I got a phone call from my husband.  It was strange - I was in the local thrift shop, trying to find nice but cheap table clothes for my daughter's birthday tea party.  I found the correct section, but no luck.  I was about to leave when my cell phone rang.

"Are you sitting down?" 

No hello, or how are you.  "Yes, I can sit down.  What's wrong?" 

I sat on a chair in the store.  I remember nothing about the chair, only that I was sitting when I heard the news.

"Eddie's dead." 

Eddie - our eldest son.  Dead.

I remember we talked about how my husband heard the news, and we talked about telling the other kids. 

I left the store without purchasing anything, and the rest of the day, even the next week, went past as a blur.  The birthday tea party, Christmas, New Year's Eve, my birthday, the private memorial service - everything went past in a blur, as I learned to live without getting phone calls from Eddie, learned to live in a world with no Eddie.  We discussed death with the other kids, and let them feel whatever they felt.  We packed up Eddie's stuff - pictures, school papers, ... - and put it all away in storage.

We survived.

Now, the anniversary of his death approaches, and I wonder what to do.  I know that grief is a strange thing, and I have a narrow walk to go on.  On one side, I fear that no mentioning his death, not acknowledging the event, will be disingenuous.  It happened - Eddie died.  

But on the other hand, I don't want to linger over his death.  Sadly, I know several people who lost children, and I have seen the effects of lingering.  I know people who constantly think about their dead child, wondering what that child would be doing now if only he/she hadn't died.  These people spend their life in a sort of fantasy, daydreaming about the dead child, talking to the dead child, and living for the dead child.

That's just not me.

I think I'll do things a bit differently.  I am thinking I might use Eddie's death as a day to write down Eddie stories, so my other kids have something to remember his by other than his death.  Or maybe I'll find someone who needs help and lend a hand.

I don't know. But I do know that life goes on.  In the end, that's what counts.

Haiku - Mimicry

Tornadoes, earthquakes,
Fire storms, Nature apes mankind,
Destruction, death, war.

Short Story: The Visitor

Mama laid a fancy, white table cloth out on the dining room table.  I ain’t never seed such a thing before, and I wanted to touch it, to see if it felt as soft as it looked.  But Mama yelled stop, said she didn’t want no one to touch it and get it dirty.  So I just stared a hole in it as Mama went back in the kitchen to cook.

Onions, garlic, beans - smells came out of Mama’s kitchen that made my mouth water.  I stopped staring at the table cloth and went into the kitchen.  Mama told me to peel some carrots, cause if I wanted a taste I had to help.  So I peel every carrot that Mama wanted, and she gave me some food to taste.

Then I follow Mama upstairs, watching her as she gets all gussied up.  I never saw Mama looking so pretty, I tell her.  Mama smiles at me, and tells me to get a pretty dress on, too.  I do, and Mama braids my hair.  I feel like a princess.  I ask Mama why we getting so pretty. Mama says that Death is fixing to visit, so we need to look nice and have a good dinner on the table.

The doorbell rings.  Mama rushes downstairs.  I follow her, not sure if I wanna meet Death.  A man walks in the living room.  He is a giant, with long black hair on his head pulled back in a pony tail and short black hair around his mouth.  Mama tells me not to be shy and shake the man’s hand.  His hand swallows mine, and I almost forget to say hello when I see his eyes.  They are a bright blue, and stand out from his brown face. He asks me how I am.  I say fine, but I ask him if all deaths are as big as him.  Mama tells me to hush, but Death throws his head back and laughs at my question.  He says that he is only a little Death, but I think he is a giant Death.

We go to the dining room table.  Mama shows Death to Daddy’s seat, then goes into the kitchen to serve the food.  I follow Mama, and help.  We sit down, and Mama bows her head.  But Death stops her, and asks her if we really want to ask the Lord for help this meal.  Mama says no, and starts eating.  I never saw Mama not pray before eating, so it takes me a minute to get a biscuit and pass them to Death.  Mama and Death talk about the weather while we eat.  They talk about the local baseball team, and other stuff that I don’t understand.

When dinner’s over, Mama asks me to clean off the table.  Then Mama leads Death upstairs.  I don’t know why Mama took him there, only family goes upstairs.  But then I look at the table.  Nothing spilled during dinner, and I don’t want to spill anything as I clean it  off.  I carefully pick up the plates.  I hear noises from upstairs, but I don’t listen because I want to keep the table cloth clean.  I get the plates in the kitchen, then the water glasses, forks, knives, and spoons.  I take the napkins off, and put them in the basket to get washed.  Finally, I take the serving plates and bread basket off.  I feel so proud of myself - the table cloth looks perfect!  Then I spot some crumbs, and I rush over to brush them off.

Mama and Death are still upstairs, making strange noises, so I decide to wash the dishes.  I get a stool, take out the drying rack, and get the water as hot as it gets.  Mama says we need a new hot water heater, but I don’t think I want water to be any more hotter.  I wash the plates, glasses, and start on the forks when I hear Mama and Death come downstairs.  I run out of the kitchen, soapy water dripping from my hands.

Mama, I call, I am washing the dishes all by myself.  But Mama’s not wearing her pretty dress, she’s wearing her nightgown.  Death smiles at me, and tells me I’m a good girl.  He tells me to take good care of Mama.  I tell him I always take good care of Mama, we care for each other.  Death nods, yes you do, he agrees with me.  Then Mama opens the door.  Death looks at Mama and says he’ll get it done right away.

Death leaves.  I ask Mama if I should get a plate ready for Daddy.  She laughs.  Daddy’s not coming home, Mama tells me.  Daddy’s never coming home again.

The Greater Evil Behind Trayvon Martin's Death

Raise your hand if you have ever watched a B-grade movie where the villain turns out to be a pawn.  At the very end of the movie, sometimes even after the credits roll, a silhouette of a man appears, sometimes smoking a cigar, remarking that the loss of the villain is only a minor setback; the plan still thrives and continues.

That's how I feel about the shooting of Trayvon Martin.  George Zimmerman is the movie villain, but he is in the end the lesser evil of the situation.  The Greater Evil is more ominous, more hideous, hiding behind shadows, using talking heads to disseminate diversions to the public in order to cover up its true nature.  And the Greater Evil is working overtime at the moment.

First, it tried to use the Stand Your Ground law to exonerate Zimmerman, but public outcry at the fact that Zimmerman instigated any confrontation soon made that untenable.  Then it tried to use self-defense, but again that particular tactic does not seem to have a mollifying effect.  So it switched to attacking Trayvon Martin, spreading rumors about his supposed marijuana use at school and even blaming the incident on his hoodie.

The Greater Evil produces fear mongering, sowing new crops of terror at every turn, until the mere present of a young, black man spooks an older man into calling 911 and acting as a vigilante.  For that matter, the Greater Evil produces the atmosphere where a vigilante feels justified in his actions.  Property and material goods suddenly carry more worth to the general public than a human life.  Requests for personal liberty slam into accusations of "If you don't have anything to hide, why do you care?"   And if you even think too loudly about protesting or happen to be near a protest (regardless of your involvement), police show up at your proverbial door and try to intimidate you into silence.

Sadly, the fate of George Zimmerman means nothing in the end if we do not work against this Greater Evil.  Worse, Trayvon Martin's death will be in vain.  But what are you willing to sacrifice, what are you willing to do to stop this infection in our society from claiming another innocent life?