Death Will Come to those Who Wait

But is death so cruel that he comes early?

I have not written anything for the past three months. I needed to grieve. But writing is also a good process for grief. But it was my ramped thoughts that I couldn’t control to keep a straight line. They were like children in their own ways. Ethically ungroomed and running around and fighting with each other. Screaming, pouting, and sometimes outright yelling. Pointing the fingers of blame. I tried to put some order, but the girls were louder and wanted to be heard. The boys seemed confused yet scurrying after the girls as if it was their duty to keep them in line.

Now a bit less noisy, I can hear them better as they sit around in a circle, hugging me. They whispered, “remember the small things”. The ones I guess I took for granted. It’s those that matter most!

How many times have I gone over “what if?”

What if we had played the game of life with different chips? Or took a path that wasn’t rough with gravel. A paved one would have been easier to walk. But what about the cars that flew by recklessly? What if he did not want to play? Who was watching? Who would have told on him? He didn’t disobey life. He wanted to play the game the right way.

We choose how to live, but sometimes our choices are taken out of our hands. They are just too far to grab a hold of. Then we rely on the love of kinship or a neighbor. Hoping they make better choices for us.

Yet the choice he made, was right for him. Even though he saw how big the boulders were in his path. He relied on his boastful legs to walk him through. His courage held his chin up high.

My last words were “I love you” and he too responded, then began his journey.

Maybe I should have gone with him like children when I held his hands on the streets. He looked up to me, till his last breath.

As a kid, he had those chubby cheeks that my sister couldn’t get her hands of. My mom once said, “You are going to pull them off his face”! Many times he gave his dinner to the stray dogs on the streets, then came in and asked for his dinner. On other days he would take chewing gum and stick it on tree branches in the backyard to catch wild birds. Then he put them in a makeshift cage, fed them, then let them go.

When he was happy, there was a gleam in his eyes and his feet were ready to skip. Where there was music, he was steadfast to show his footwork.

His love had no shame.

He always had a deep look in his eyes when something was bothering him. I heard it in his voice when he said, “I’m frightened”. I was too, but I couldn’t tell him that. So I said, “think of the strength of mom, and you’ll make it through”. He did make it through.

But that happiness was short-lived just for a day.

Life isn’t a toy that I can wind up at my convenience. I always dreaded phone calls in the middle of the night or the early hours of the morning. That dreaded phone call came at five am on May 12th. It still rings in my ear. They are never pleasant or courteous. Always, unmannerly and wild with hysteria. Pleasantries can wait till a reasonable time the next day. But the message with no mercy must be told right away. Or we will be angry with the messenger.

Some days I tell myself that when the phone rings, it will be him, and he’ll ask “what are you doing today?’ Those words are now worth more than what I can afford to pay should the opportunity presents itself. And because I cannot afford the cost, I will never hear them again.

“Oh this isn’t the right person”?

But sometimes I feel that death may stumble over us. Those are the times when we’re on our deathbed, yet made it true. Are those the times he comes and takes a closer look then say “Oh this isn’t the right person”? So I guess there is no running or hiding because he will always find us. Emily Dickinson said, “I did not stop for death, he stopped for me”.

Now, my well has run dry like my mother said, “We never miss the water until the well runs dry”.