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I sit here in numbly staring at the wall. I feel the tear as it strolls down my cheek, but that aside I feel nothing. Nothing. Beside me on the bed are the newspapers, their headlines screaming at me. Telling me the truths I don't want to hear. I don't want to believe. I don't want to face this. I push them aside with an angry energy and they fly to the floor. Scattered.
A voice calls for me from downstairs. My Mother. My nervous upset mother. Not knowing how to respond to me. Not knowing what to say or how to help. She pops her head around the corner of the door and I see her gulp and take a deep breath before speaking. She tells me the cars are here and it's time to go. I nod silently. She leaves me to my grief and goes back downstairs quietly. Everyone is so quiet. Everyone is whispering as if sound might cause the world to stop. Don't they realise the world has already stopped. For me at least.
I force myself to get up off of the bed and I walk toward the bathroom door. I tap lightly and call my husbands name. I hear sniffles and sobs and it takes a while for him to reply. I swallow and then tell him that it's time to go. The taps go on and I imagine him splashing water on his face - as if that will stop the tears from falling. As if that will help him cope. As if that will make him look fine again and people won't know that he hasn't been able to stop the tears for 5 days.
5 days. It's already been 5 days.
The bathroom door opens and my husband walks into the bedroom. He looks at me uncomfortably as if he doesn't know whether to hug me or not. Please don't hug me. Don't touch me. I can't be touched right now. Leave me be.
We walk stiffly out of the bedroom. As if strangers. We walk down the stairs, both of us purposely not looking at the closed bedroom door at the end of the hallway. Avoiding what we know we must face. Later. Not today. This is enough today.
Several people are downstairs and they look at us briefly as we walk down. A few pecks on cheeks, a few squeezes of my hand or arm. I walk into the front room and look out of the window. And there it is. There is the car. The long black car that houses my Son. My Son. In a box. In a hearse. My sweet, wonderful, loving Son. How can this be? How can this be real? It feels as if I am watching a movie. As if I am watching this happen to someone else. These things always happen to someone else.
I feel someone come into the room and I know it's my husband. He stand behind me. He looks at the car and I'm sure thinks the things I think. I feel his arms move around me and his head pressed against mine. And I am ready. I am ready for his arms. I am ready to share my grief with him. It is time.
My Son. The wonderful little toddler that ran into my arms and sang his heart out in kindergarten and played football as if life depended on it in Junior High. The light of my life was distinguished five days ago. He was crossing the road to come home to me. After a day at his friends house he was on his way home. A man in his forties, robbed me of my Son. He had had several drinks after work to ease the stress of his working day. He got behind the wheel of his car and he ploughed into my Son. My heartt is gone - never to be replaced.
I take my husbands hand and we walk together out to the car. I blow a kiss to my Son and we leave to say goodbye...............forever.
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