An Unexpected Grief

(Sometimes we write to connect with others. Other times we write to connect with ourselves, our pain. This is one of those circumstances. This piece of writing is oblique and I know it.  Even so, I can’t bring myself to be otherwise. Yet.)

Will you weep with me? Share my woe? Then perhaps it will be halved, divided. Might you accompany me to the places sadness leads, examine the items it dredges up? 

            I grieved the unknown then found I preferred it to the truth. Now randomly, frequently, the surprise of loss claws at me, flings punches in the vicinity of my kidneys. I wasn’t ready. It was too soon, much.

            The trail of my tears is charcoal gray with bits of plum and glimmers of silver shine, or is it Fool’s Gold?

             The feeling of responsibility whether warranted or not is insistent. If only . . . What if . . . I shouldn’t have . . . It’s not even my burden but I take it on gladly, not wanting it to break another beneath its crush.  And then there is the silence, the secret, that must be maintained. We cannot open wounds in others with this knowledge. Secrecy is a frigid lightless cave insisting you are alone even if you're not.

            Should I thank this sorrow for the way it’s making my hand bleed upon the page? In this moment, I wish I’d write never more. Will I be despised? For my incompleteness, my lack of clarity, my refusal to truth tell? Translate my reticence as mystery, an opportunity. Fill in the blanks with your heart. What is your secret grief, your regret? What is the reason you hum, “Turn your eyes upon Jesus” and soon after, “And the things of this world will grow strangely dim”? Or perhaps your song is, "Comfortably Numb."

            I want to gather the people who know, the very few—the two, no, three, who are aware. I’ll arrange us in a row with me in the middle then I’ll unfold a handkerchief and smooth it out atop my thighs, outline a fuchsia lipstick heart in the center. Soon after, I’ll drop my tears inside of it. 

No Longer Certain

It confounds me how your love can exist so comfortably beside your secret. A radiant warmth snuggled next to an abysmal darkness. A pool of green water. Still. Absolutely unaffected by earthquakes all around.

            Eyes wide, I peer into your shine. Try to gulp it in. I’m almost blinded. A moment later, off to the right, the shadow of your mystery arrives to abduct your brilliance.

            I think I can live right here. In this space—between my karate chop hands held a foot apart--if I pretend the lack of light is a lie. A miscommunication. Soon after though, I become sure of your misdeeds. They nip at my ankles. Draw my feet (and heart) down like quicksand.

I could not for the life of me stop thinking of Adam and Eve. Eve mostly, though I wondered why Adam didn’t rise up. Be the man. Do the right thing. Stop. Eve.

            I felt, for the second time in my life, a bit like God. Foolish, I know. But similar still.

            We were perfect, weren’t we? But really, we weren’t. The lie, the what if, had already slipped in. Tainted paradise. Infected glory.

Now I understand how the worst thing that can happen is doubt. Mine. Yours. And now I live as though someone stepped on my eyes. That shape on the horizon, is it beauty, or evil? And the form to the left of it. Tell me. Is it kindness or deception?

            I think that’s what I miss most. The certainty that what I know is what I know.

            And yet I love you still.

Mystery in the House Across the Street

Some people swore the house was haunted.  Oh, all right.  It was me.  I said it.  I live across the street.  One morning I walked outside and saw a “SOLD” sign stuck over the one that said “FOR SALE.”  I was stoked.  Maybe someone cool would move in.  A thirteen year-old like me would be great.  Turned out to be a she, a twelve year-old girl.  Not a guy, but still.  

           

I heard her way before I saw her.

            “I won’t do it again!” she said.  “You can’t make me!”

            It was almost dark.  I stopped my bike when I heard her.   Looked up at the third floor window.  There was a light on, and the curtain, what was left of it, was all raggedy and see through   The window must’ve been open because I could hear everything.

            “Baby!  Don’t (sob)--  Make (gasp)-- Me (whimper)--  Shoot.”  It was a woman’s voice.  Her mom’s gonna kill her?  That’s sick.  

            I let my bike fall over so I could pull my backpack off.  Maybe I heard wrong.   I rooted through my pack.  I keep everything in there.  Two years of scouts had taught me to be prepared.  I dug out my binoculars case and snapped it open.  Stepped behind my neighbor’s bushes and pointed the binoculars at the window.

            Bang!  The gunshot made me jump.  It wasn’t real loud.  Sounded like a little kid’s pop gun.  Even so, the blast pushed the girl across the room.  Her back hit the wall, and she slid to the ground.  Holy crap!  She was petite, with loads of dark hair.  I winced as blood trickled down her chin.  I got my cell phone out.  To dial 9-1-1.  Dang it! It was dead.

            I sprinted to my house.  Opened the front door and yelled.
            “Mom!”

            “I’m in the shower, Shane.”

            I took the stairs two at a time and stood beside the bathroom door.

            “I think someone just got killed over at the new people’s house.”

            “You what?  Now why would you say something like that?”

            I leaned against the wall and rolled my eyes.  “I’m serious, Mom.  I heard a gun and—“

            “A gun?  No, you didn’t, Shane. Those people haven’t even moved in yet.  There's never been a moving truck or cars.  Besides--”

            “I know, but—“

            “It was probably fireworks," she said.  "Or maybe someone clapped.  I swear!  You’re so dramatic.”

            I snorted.  Clapped?  Seriously? 

            “I’m going back out,” I said.  “I bet the police’ll come.”

           

I waited for the cops.  They never came.  I got ready to go inside to call 'em, but then the whole thing started over.  Like instant replay.

            “I won’t--” 

            “Don’t make me--" 

            Bang!

            That’s when I got it.  The house is haunted.  The woman and girl are ghosts.  The whole scene probably runs over and over.  Forever.  Guess I'd held my breath 'cause all of a sudden, it came out in a rush. I stood there for a minute, then I grinned.  Ghosts?  Ghosts live across the street from me?  Cool.

           

The next day I was on my bike when I heard a car go up the alley behind the new people’s house. Then it came down the street.  Toward me.  Fast.  My mouth fell open when I saw the dark-haired girl in the front seat.  What the--?  I huffed.  The alley!  They keep their car ‘round back! 

            The killing mom slowed the car and yelled out the window.

            “Move it, kid.  We’ve got places to go.  People to see.”

            I stayed put.  “Where you going?”

            “For your information, Mr. Nibby, Mystery here has an audition in exactly one hour.  We want to be first in line.”

            My eyebrows went up. “Audition?”

            The girl leaned over.  “Yeah.  They wanna see if I can cry and die.  Now move!”

            She’s even prettier up close. 

            I tilted my head.  “You act?  For real?  Me too.”

            “Cool.  We’ll talk later.  Go, Mom.”

           

Me and Mystery?  The girl who wasn’t a ghost?  We became best friends.  Until she kissed me.  After that?  Nothing was ever the same again after that.