Mental Musings from
The Marginatrix
...because sometimes I just need to share my thoughts.
There was a part of me that knew it was coming, but I was wholly unprepared. And in retrospect, I'm sure my mom was not looking forward to what was coming and how she would explain it. It's never easy to explain death to a child. And so it may have come as a bit of a relief when I said, "Please don't tell me if he dies. I'll ask if I want to know."
After my little brother, Blacky was my best friend. Not a very original or creative name, I know, but I was only four when I chose him and he was black from head to tail so it made sense. And naturally, he was the runt of the litter. Even then, I was attracted to the underdog, or in this case, undercat. Blacky was an indoor/outdoor cat. On Long Island, the worst predator for a cat was a car, and there wasn't a lot of traffic on our street. His litter box was in the basement and he was not allowed in the bedrooms. That didn't stop him, of course. I shared a room with my brother. After being put to bed, I'd whisper his name and then I'd hear his kitty paws patter up the stairs. He'd wait for me to pat the bed, then crawl under the covers to cuddle. On more than one occasion, I'd hear my dad calling Blacky, but we'd pretend to be asleep. It was our secret. Blacky was no angel. A Tom cat, I imagine he'd prowl the neighborhood every night looking for a fight. And all too often, he found a willing participant. One morning, he returned to the house with a gaping wound on his back haunch, evidence of a vicious foe. At the time, I didn't understand how little extra money my parents had. Nevertheless, they took him to the vet, who stitched him up, covered the wound, and admonished them to keep him indoors until it had fully healed. My parents explained that they would not be taking him back for further treatment so he had best behave himself. Unfortunately, Blacky didn't believe them. Within a few days, he'd escaped the confines of his prison. When he limped home the following morning, his side once again oozing, my heart sank. My father took him back to the vet. I wanted desperately to believe that he would stay there until he'd recovered. The days passed and turned into weeks. Slowly, I came to terms with what I suspected just be true. One day, I approached my mom. "Blacky's not coming home, is he?" My mother has always prized honesty above all else. She stopped what she was doing and lowered herself to my level. She looked me in the eyes and said, "No, he's not. He's in Heaven now." I nodded in understanding and said, "Okay." It wasn't until much later I asked her for details. It was years before I learned just how hard it had been for my father, a funeral director, no less, to hold Blacky as he took his last breaths. In his typical manner, he joked about it, but there was this underlying sadness that was hard to miss. He had held Blacky in his arms as he'd closed his eyes for the last time. I was no stranger to death, but it had never seemed quite real to me. My father's family owned a funeral home and he worked there part time as a mortician. His parents lived upstairs and when we used to visit, we would take the side door into the building because the front door was all the way on the other side of the building. That door led to the storage area, where rows upon rows of caskets sat silently, expectantly in the darkened room. My brother and I would race to the door on the far wall to enter the public area, and safety. We'd threaten to lock one another in the haunted room, but neither of us actually had the heart to do it. One day, while wandering through the hallways and viewing rooms,I happened upon a girl younger than me. She looked so peaceful lying there, her dark brown hair framing her angelic face. I gazed at her in confusion, no doubt scrunching my brow, as I attempted to square my vision with what I knew to be true. Only old people die. I couldn't understand, and my younger brother was no help in this endeavor. So we sought my mother's help. I imagine this was a conversation that, even if anticipated, was certainly not relished. And somehow, like so many other times, she had the right answer. Sometimes God takes children because he needs more angels, but not to worry, he doesn't do it often and he chooses judiciously. He only takes those who are so good that He cannot bear to be separated from them any longer. I think my brother and I both breathed a sigh of relief, confident in the knowledge God wouldn't be taking either of us any time soon.
0 Comments
Leave a Reply. |
Elizabeth J. Connor
|