ON THE WINGS OF DRAGONFLIES
ONE
How we spend our days is, of course, how we spend our lives.
Annie Dillard, The Writing Life
And so the nightmare begins…
I'm not sure what it was that we were supposed to learn from each other. I revisit the time we had together, capturing glimpses of the last twenty-three years. Images float through my head, short frames of events that were played out years ago. I cling to these pictures. Your laughter, your voice, resonate in my mind. I'm determined to hold on to as much of you as I can. Don't fade away, I pray. Stay near; stay here with me so that I might reassure myself with these memories of you.
If I search my heart, I know you taught me to love with unrelenting fervor. Before you, I had never experienced such intensity, such unwavering loyalty and passion for another human being. From the very first moment I saw you, there was never any question that I would be willing to lay down my life for yours. How ironic that I sit here now, writing of our journey together without you still in this world.
People often talk about surviving the loss of a loved one. Odd, that's what I am now, a survivor. How I wish things were different. How I wish that you were here and that I had not outlived you. This isn't what I bargained for. It's not what any parent bargains for. We are not supposed to outlive our children. But the undeniable truth is that tragedies happen and leave behind a wake of devastation. As much as I want to wish it away, the harsh reality remains, one of my children has died.
It's been three and a half weeks since your death, three-and-a-half weeks since I touched your arm or heard you tell me that you loved me. Can't we go back in time, just go back twenty-five days and undo the horror? That's all I want—to make this stop, to pull myself out of this hideous nightmare that has catapulted me into a dark, interminable hell.
Three-and-a-half weeks, the words in my head repeat again and again--and so the nightmare begins. Your death is becoming more real now. I can't wish it away. Still, there are times when I believe that if I pray with all my might, you'll come home to me. I see you making your way up the walk to the front door. I hear your footsteps on the porch. My breath catches in my throat. With gaze riveted on the front door, I anticipate you crossing the threshold. Once inside, you're confused by all the commotion; you wonder why everyone is so emotional. You apologize for being away for so long and not having called; you apologize for worrying me. But these images are all in my mind. They disappear; what remains is the reality of your death.
How is it that time moves forward without you? Winter is almost upon us, and it seems as though the entire world is preparing for the holidays. Hanukkah is days away, and Aunt Leslie has asked me to go shopping with her. This is her attempt to nudge me back out into the world. Baby steps meant to have me rejoin the living.
From my vantage point on the front porch, I see my sister drive up. My heart races as a young woman climbs out of the passenger seat of the Volvo. The long hair, the planes and angles of her face, create the illusion that it is you. I start to call for Bob to tell him that Leslie has found you, but I choke down the words as your cousin, Bria, turns and waves to me. The young girl is not you, after all. Swallowing hard, I try to push the pain further away. It lodges deep in my gut, a hollow ache that has become all too familiar.
My days are filled with pain. Seemingly innocuous activities lead me into dangerous territory. A walk to the park seems harmless enough until a young woman jogs towards me. Her gait and the sway of her body are graceful and full of ease. I smile, lured into believing that it is actually you instead who is approaching. When I realize the truth, I feel as though I've been sucker punched. You have died. Home again, I hurry to answer the telephone, hoping that it will be you on the other end. I need to hear your voice. I want to ask you where you've been. But you're not there. It's someone else. Time and again, I'm reminded that you are gone.
* * *
I am thankful for many things. I am most thankful for my life. I am grateful that I have a family with people who love and respect me. I am grateful that I am an independent thinker, with my own thoughts and ideas. I am also grateful that I am a Jew because I think we have some uniqueness and specialness.
Rebecca, 1996