How Could I Ever Forget?

You know how sometimes you'll see or or hear something that will stick with you for days?

You're not really sure why, there's just a part of it that lodges itself into the back of your throat, and recalling it will trigger a feeling you can't describe, like it's made up of one part uneasy, one part sad, one part disbelief.

You wish you could put your finger on it, on what EXACTLY that feeling is, and why you can't shake it. But you can't. And it can only fade gradually. And sometimes not at all.

I had that experience this week. When a Puff Daddy song came on. You know, the one he wrote when Biggie died. OK, that sounds corny when written down (or typed, whatever) but moving right along.

In 2005, I was twenty nine years old. I had a job I was bored with, a waitress-sized chip on my shoulder, and a husband I was less than happy with 99% of the time.

I stayed up late and drank way too much caffeine. I tried to have a devil-may-care attitude towards life, but in reality all I wanted was an end to the constant fighting at my house, complete and utter devotion from a man who loved me, and maybe a smaller car payment because I was tired of working overtime.

I measured time in days until the weekend, trying to keep the kids happy when I felt like I was spreading myself too thin, grabbing sleep when I could because insomnia was kicking my butt and scribbling furiously in my mental notebook about how miserable my life was, bla, bla, bla.

The soundtrack of life that year was any song on the radio that I could drown my "life is not fair" mantra with.

I remember that everything seemed so important, a parking ticket, a high electricity bill, a grouchy spouse.

I remember missing the phone call that afternoon. Then seeing the news break in while Judge Judy was on that a child had been hit by a car in Arlington. Then checking my voice mail and hearing my aunts voice. Then being shell-shocked in front of the television , holding my phone. And the T.V. resuming it's regularly scheduled program.

When something that seemed like life or death pales in comparison with ACTUAL life or death, you're forced to reevaluate. And you don't always like what you come up with.

I remember vowing to make better choices if God would let him live. I prayed as though there were some patron saint of belated resolutions, that if this were just a dream, I'd never use a four letter word again or throw a coffee mug at Mike's head. I'd never ever ditch church again.

Unimportant promises from a confused, almost 30, overworked and under-appreciative church-skipper don't add up to much in the grand scheme of things, but doing penance seemed the least that should be done for such a magnitude of loss.

I had that feeling that day, and for weeks afterwards. Choking, unbearable at times. Heavy pressure on my chest. The weight of the world never distributed so unevenly.

But thats what happens when someone you have known since their birth, someone you share grandparents with, and exchange notes with at church, someone that you laugh with at inappropriate jokes and expect to be there forever, dies. Particularly, when that someone is just a child. A child that was healthy the instant before he was hit by a truck while spending the afternoon in the sunshine on his bike.