TheHusband makes phone calls while I pack a suitcase. I don’t know what to bring. Jeans and sneakers to be at the house. Comfy clothes for late nights and early mornings. What to bring for the funeral? Will there be a funeral? Dad always said he didn’t want one, but would Mom be able to fulfill this request?
While I’m zipping here and there, throwing things in the suitcase then pulling them out again, TheHusband has made arrangements with his boss so he can drive me to my parents’ house. Or wherever it was I was going to find my mom that night. He has also made arrangements for someone to look in on Kitty (our cat). Who knows how long we’ll be gone?
It only takes an hour from the time we first get through to someone at the fire and the time we are on the road. It’s a good thing TheHusband is driving or I would be pedal to the metal, flying up the interstate. As it is I’m mental pushing TheHusband’s foot down on the accelerator (not that it does any good).
There is not much conversation; I am lost in thought as I stare into the fields. Soon it is too dark to see anything, and TheHusband asks what I’m thinking. It’s hard for me to explain, but I tell him I am thinking about Mom . . . and Dad. The officer had said they knew where in the house Dad was, but that the heat and smoke had been too bad to pull him out. They left them there and it made me angry. I tried to remember that he was already “gone” and that there were more lives at stake. His body wasn’t worth sending others into danger. But I also knew, even before I was told, that Mom wouldn’t leave before they pulled him from whatever was left of the house.
I prayed with all my heart and soul that she would either be convinced not to be there when he was brought out of the house or that Dad would not be burned too badly. “Please God, PLEASE do not let her last memory of him be all burned and disfigured.”
Sunday, August 27, 2006
Friday, August 18, 2006
I love you because...
. . . you pick up the slack when I get lazy about taking care of Kitty.
She says "Meow", btw.
She says "Meow", btw.
The beginning of the story
I was sitting in the church basement, waiting for Sr. Youth to start. Chatting and laughing with the few kids who were there. Then TheHusband came through the door and motioned to the Youth Leader that he needed to talk to her. When she came back in the room I knew something was wrong. There were tears in her eyes and she would only say “You need to go home now.” So I grabbed my purse and walked out to my car, where TheHusband was waiting.
“Everything’s fine, I’ll tell you what’s going on when we get home.” For a fleeting moment I believed him. What kind of sweet surprise does he have planned for me? But it was a lie. I knew it. If everything was fine, why would the Youth Leader have looked ready to cry and why would he look so serious? So I drove home, trying not to speed, and trying not to think horrible things.
When I pulled in to the parking lot, I knew, like you just know certain things, it had to do with Dad. “What’s going on?” I asked before we could even get inside the building.
“There was a fire at the house.”
“My parents’ house?”
“No”
“Your parents’ house?”
“No, the house in #####.”
“and. . . ?”
“They didn’t get out.”
“Both of them, or just Dad?”
I’m scared now. If it’s Dad I can handle it, but Mom too? I’m not ready for that. I’ve been preparing myself for years for the phone call about Dad. But not. . . not both of them, not at the same time.
“I don’t know, let’s just get inside.”
This is when it clicks, it’s Wednesday night and Mom should have been at work. Was she sick? Did her schedule change? What the heck is going on?
We get into the building, the adrenaline is flowing, and I can’t decide whether to run to the phone or to shake TheHusband for more information. I do both, but neither produces much results. Brother5 left a voicemail and TheHusband hasn’t been able to get him to answer his phone. It takes me ten minutes, TEN MINUTES, to think to call the sheriff’s department (it’s a small town, and the county provides law enforcement).
TheHusband looks up the number and makes the call. They give him the phone number of an officer at the scene. He dials while I grab a suitcase to pack. I hear him on the phone explaining who he is and I pick up an extension in time to hear that the house is pretty much gone and they “lost” Dad.
Lost. That’s what they said, like he simply wandered away in the grocery store. That’s not what happened, and we all know it. I want to scream “He’s not lost! You know where he is, go get him!” But I know it’s too late. Then it registers, he said no one else was in the house. Just Dad. I feel relief flood through me, then shame. Dad’s dead, and I’m relieved I’m not an orphan. What is my problem?
“Everything’s fine, I’ll tell you what’s going on when we get home.” For a fleeting moment I believed him. What kind of sweet surprise does he have planned for me? But it was a lie. I knew it. If everything was fine, why would the Youth Leader have looked ready to cry and why would he look so serious? So I drove home, trying not to speed, and trying not to think horrible things.
When I pulled in to the parking lot, I knew, like you just know certain things, it had to do with Dad. “What’s going on?” I asked before we could even get inside the building.
“There was a fire at the house.”
“My parents’ house?”
“No”
“Your parents’ house?”
“No, the house in #####.”
“and. . . ?”
“They didn’t get out.”
“Both of them, or just Dad?”
I’m scared now. If it’s Dad I can handle it, but Mom too? I’m not ready for that. I’ve been preparing myself for years for the phone call about Dad. But not. . . not both of them, not at the same time.
“I don’t know, let’s just get inside.”
This is when it clicks, it’s Wednesday night and Mom should have been at work. Was she sick? Did her schedule change? What the heck is going on?
We get into the building, the adrenaline is flowing, and I can’t decide whether to run to the phone or to shake TheHusband for more information. I do both, but neither produces much results. Brother5 left a voicemail and TheHusband hasn’t been able to get him to answer his phone. It takes me ten minutes, TEN MINUTES, to think to call the sheriff’s department (it’s a small town, and the county provides law enforcement).
TheHusband looks up the number and makes the call. They give him the phone number of an officer at the scene. He dials while I grab a suitcase to pack. I hear him on the phone explaining who he is and I pick up an extension in time to hear that the house is pretty much gone and they “lost” Dad.
Lost. That’s what they said, like he simply wandered away in the grocery store. That’s not what happened, and we all know it. I want to scream “He’s not lost! You know where he is, go get him!” But I know it’s too late. Then it registers, he said no one else was in the house. Just Dad. I feel relief flood through me, then shame. Dad’s dead, and I’m relieved I’m not an orphan. What is my problem?
Tuesday, August 15, 2006
Training Wheels
He learned to ride a bike
with no hands to guide him,
no training wheels, or strong arms,
to catch him when he fell.
His only teachers were the biting gravel
and the laughing tree by the driveway.
When he would fall
the gravel screamed, "Don't do that!"
and he could hear, "Try again,"
come whispering from the tree.
When he did succeed
with timing and with balance,
the friendly tree congratulated him
with open arms, a rough kiss,
and a bit of advice:
"Now practice your steering, please."
This is actually one of my favorite poems from college. The professor (Bill Holm) walked into class a little late one night and said "You have seven minutes to write a poem with the word 'tree' in it. Begin now." He looked at his watch, then sat down. This poem is what poured out.
with no hands to guide him,
no training wheels, or strong arms,
to catch him when he fell.
His only teachers were the biting gravel
and the laughing tree by the driveway.
When he would fall
the gravel screamed, "Don't do that!"
and he could hear, "Try again,"
come whispering from the tree.
When he did succeed
with timing and with balance,
the friendly tree congratulated him
with open arms, a rough kiss,
and a bit of advice:
"Now practice your steering, please."
This is actually one of my favorite poems from college. The professor (Bill Holm) walked into class a little late one night and said "You have seven minutes to write a poem with the word 'tree' in it. Begin now." He looked at his watch, then sat down. This poem is what poured out.
I love you because...
. . . you agree with me when I say things like "I'm Brilliant!" or "I'm Funny!"
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