There’s a scar healing slowly above my left ankle that I hope will remain. It’s the gash made by a cat I loved, John Coffey, when he got so excited by my attentions that passion overtook him.
It was his last gash, as it turns
out. About a week later, as I was trying
to wipe his nostrils free of mucous, he inexplicably died in my hands. One moment he was here, the next moment he
was gone.
Between those two moments, my
concern for him turned to grief for myself as I was flooded by the love I’d
felt for him the past 6 years. So dear,
that cat; so important, our relationship. Gone.
In shock, I buried him, then went wobbly on.
That shift in perspective, from
busy-ness to dead still, is what many must have experienced in Fresno this past
week as the news spread of the mad man’s shooting spree. Certainly the victims’ families and friends did: he was just here this morning, talking about
his new job, what we’d have for dinner with the groceries from Catholic
Charities, once we get this check in the bank, we’re goin’ for coffee, friend,
you and I. The next moment he’s on the
ground bleeding to death or on the way to the ER and there’s a phone call that
suddenly makes nothing else important.
For a moment, there’s nothing else.
Nothing.
I got a phone call like that
once. I was a young wife baking cookies
for TrickerTreaters while my husband attended a night class for his speech
therapist certification. The phone rang,
my mom said “Sit down,” and the rest of the world sliced away as she told me of
my brother’s death. That was forty-five
years ago, and I can still feel the shift.
It would turn out to be a turning
point for me, once I recovered from grinding to a halt. The loss both catapulted me forward and
dragged me back, over and over, but from that point onward there was no real
return to what I had envisioned as a normal life. I think now that was good, though I try not
to be arrogant toward people with normal lives.
Everybody’s got their own row to hoe.
If there is anything good to glean
from those senseless tragedies in Fresno (and there were many other deaths in
Fresno reported that day – an older woman who’d left her walker behind to eat
her nachos on the tracks, in the dark, by herself, run over by a southbound
Amtrak train, despite the warning horn and lights – what’s more senseless than
that?) it’s the miracle that we’re still
here. Life is so incredibly fragile, and
yet we’re still here, friend, you and I, still breathing. Still thinking there might be something to
accomplish or enjoy in these minutes we appear to have today.
Peace. Breathe in the day.
--------------------------------------------------------
Trudy
Wischemann is a reluctant activist who writes.
Thanks to whoever left John Coffey on my porch as a kitten. Send your sympathy/recovery thoughts c/o P.O.
Box 1374, Lindsay CA 93247 or leave a
comment below.
No comments:
Post a Comment