It was a year
later when I held his still-ticking watch in my hand. Still ticking. He was
dead, gone for a year and his watch was still ticking. I didn't know whether to
lash out in anger or sit down and sob. My precious first born son, my baby, was
dead before he reached twenty-five years of age, in a car accident.
His car was demolished,
He was dead without a scratch on him I'm told. But his watch was still ticking.
It too, didn't have a scratch but the band was broken.
I put his watch
away, still ticking, to look at on another day.
Twenty-six years
later I read in a book where someone picked up the watch of their loved one who
had died an hour ago. She was stunned. In reading this sentence, I broke down
and cried as if I had never cried before. That moment was still buried inside
me. Deep inside me. I don’t think of him until a reason comes to be that makes
me think of him. Yet I read a sentence in a book and break down and cry. Does
it ever truly heal? Are we ever reconciled with the tragedies in our lives?
Even
understanding about life-after-life, and accepting it gladly, it’s the loss of
the physical that lingers and wounds.
1 comment:
I don't think we do. I have learned to make room for them in my life, to acknowledge them every day, but not become focused on them to the exclusion of all else. When I remember my father I say to myself "Oh he is really still with me and will never leave"
Post a Comment