It was cold, dark and rainy. I polished my shoes, made sure that my creased shirt and slacks were absolutely perfect, neck tie pinned strait and put on my hat. It’s one of those flat hats like the Drill Sergeants wear. The rain has picked up by the time I arrive and I worry about making a puddle in their front hallway. I ring the doorbell like I’m squeezing the trigger of a gun. You just do it, but once it’s done, it can never be undone and I’ve done this many times.
The father answers the door and stands in the middle of the opening like a pit bull. His wife stands behind and a little to the side of him, her hand on her neck and in her eyes I see foreboding. Why do they always seem to already know? I ask to come inside but Dad won’t have it. This man is King where I am standing and a King knows when an enemy stands at his door. He juts out his jaw and asks me why I am here even though I am certain he can already see it in my eyes. The rain cascades off the front of my hat like a veil of tears and I stand on their porch and I watch them through the tears as I tell them that their daughters have died on a piece of lonely highway. I watch them sway slightly and then slowly crumble as my words erode the mortar holding their lives together.
These beautiful people have partnered for most of their lives to build a family and it’s gone. Late night fevers and birthday parties and bills and jobs and scraped knees and I love you’s and I hate you’s. Bath time and graduation, boyfriends and math homework, card games and phone calls and hugs. I watch it all come apart, tip and slowly fall. They ask me inside to make puddles on their floorboards and talk about the details. There are things to be done.
Later that night I slip into my children’s room and listen to make sure they are breathing - like I won’t believe it unless I see it for myself. Then I lay on the floor next to their bed and stare at the dark ceiling and rub the scar tonight has left behind.
The father answers the door and stands in the middle of the opening like a pit bull. His wife stands behind and a little to the side of him, her hand on her neck and in her eyes I see foreboding. Why do they always seem to already know? I ask to come inside but Dad won’t have it. This man is King where I am standing and a King knows when an enemy stands at his door. He juts out his jaw and asks me why I am here even though I am certain he can already see it in my eyes. The rain cascades off the front of my hat like a veil of tears and I stand on their porch and I watch them through the tears as I tell them that their daughters have died on a piece of lonely highway. I watch them sway slightly and then slowly crumble as my words erode the mortar holding their lives together.
These beautiful people have partnered for most of their lives to build a family and it’s gone. Late night fevers and birthday parties and bills and jobs and scraped knees and I love you’s and I hate you’s. Bath time and graduation, boyfriends and math homework, card games and phone calls and hugs. I watch it all come apart, tip and slowly fall. They ask me inside to make puddles on their floorboards and talk about the details. There are things to be done.
Later that night I slip into my children’s room and listen to make sure they are breathing - like I won’t believe it unless I see it for myself. Then I lay on the floor next to their bed and stare at the dark ceiling and rub the scar tonight has left behind.
well written Tom; I'm not sure I'd be up to handling such a task as this.
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