Monday, April 16, 2007
Just another day~
It's just another day. . . for me anyway. A state holiday, the day of the Boston Marathon, the Boston Red Sox played and beat the Angels. The tail end of a nor'easter wags like a puppy dog; the rain has stopped, the power is back on, and there's just a lot of chilly wind.
There's no school, the start of vacation week, no big plans-- grocery shopping, a nap, a little writing, reading, laundry, stuff and roast a chicken. A day like any other.
Then a friend posts a link to the Pulitzer Prize winners on the Internet Writing Workshop, and I click to check it out. I'm short on time, so I jump to the feature photography winner: Renee Byer. I'll start here, and check the others later.
I have no expectations. I click through the black and white photos of mother and son-- I'm a mother of sons-- and am overtaken by the stark honesty, the terrible honesty, sad, bleak, no-hope-at-all honesty in the pictures of the mother whose young son is dying of cancer.
I don't want to see this, but I can't look away, and I view picture after picture through a haze of tears that don't fall. They could, if I let them, but I don't. Maybe I should have. Stuffing them back is hard, and I'm left with a melancholy cloud that hovers. I think of that mother. I feel for that mother.
Later I click on the news while I prepare supper. "The Virginia Tech massacre . . ," I hear. And I sit and stare at the TV, at more pictures, pictures and words, that will wrench the hearts of thirty-three mothers, wrench the hearts of all mothers.
One of those senseless shootings, and thirty-three college students are shot, killed, and the innocence of many others dies as well. My tears are there again. I feel this.
I've seen these things before: death of babies, death of children, death of loved ones, if not mine, somebody's. If not in my country, somebody's. It hurts.
I stand beside my son David waiting for him to fish something out of the refrigerator, so I can put the butter away. He'll be off to college in five months. He's my baby. I want to grab him and hold him in an iron hug. I want to tell him to be careful, that I love him, that I . . . but he knows this. I just stand and wait. He straightens and walks to the table with the milk. As he passes me he pokes me in the ribs.
"Awwgh," I say. I poke him back.
Sometimes a poke is as good as a hug.
Pulitzer Prize Winners