A moment of silence
It shouldn't be shocking, I guess, to see death and destruction up close. It shouldn't be so disturbing when millions (trillions) of dollars are spent, and governments debated over magnitudinous murder. But there is something so much more personal and horrifying about the nakedness of being an eye-witness. Seeing a body in pain, or in death. (I am not sure which, just yet).
There were multiple ambulances, small vehicles really, with flashing lights. I didn't recognize immediately if they were police, or fire... white, unmarked SUV's, three, shielding the accident from view. Traffic was backed up, but moving, and I inched forward, heading, as is customary, towards the highway. The late afternoon sun is blinding there, on cathedral oaks. The ominous and oddly angled black SUV showed no readable signs. Was that a dent? or a shadow? Why did it stop there. No broken glass. And then I saw it, the silver glint in the sun. a flat handlebar. I inched forward, not a bike, a scooter, flat lines, lifeless. Two women with emotionless faces squatted behind him, the sun framing them. There was no movement. Just stillness, one touched his hand set it back down, his face lay on the asphalt. There was no response. He looks so peaceful there on the ground, his lithe body, at rest. There was no blood on the pavement. His shaved head showed no signs of trauma. Maybe he is sleeping? Sometimes I think I would like to just lie there in the middle of what I am doing, too exhausted to carry on. There was a dreamlike quality to all this. Everything at a screeching halt, suspended. They were not ambulances? It was too soon. Where was his mother? I wanted to know, and I. wanted to know, too. "Don't cry, mommy, not while you are driving." She reached forward to comfort me. "Shhh. He's not dead," she tells me. "The good thing about my imaginary friends is that they tell me things, they can tell me the truth about things. They are telling me he is not dead, he is just unconscious. But, I wish his mommy were there."
And I envision the wail that would rip through me, tear my lungs apart. I don't cry anymore, can't always cry. Why was he on a scooter in the middle of the road? What was he doing there, in that precise moment at that exact angle? What sense does it make? How do you have tomorrow? And the next day? Why does it hurt so much to witness, to be impotent to reverse the damage, to console, to protect?
There is nothing to say, and yet, I need to testify.
There were multiple ambulances, small vehicles really, with flashing lights. I didn't recognize immediately if they were police, or fire... white, unmarked SUV's, three, shielding the accident from view. Traffic was backed up, but moving, and I inched forward, heading, as is customary, towards the highway. The late afternoon sun is blinding there, on cathedral oaks. The ominous and oddly angled black SUV showed no readable signs. Was that a dent? or a shadow? Why did it stop there. No broken glass. And then I saw it, the silver glint in the sun. a flat handlebar. I inched forward, not a bike, a scooter, flat lines, lifeless. Two women with emotionless faces squatted behind him, the sun framing them. There was no movement. Just stillness, one touched his hand set it back down, his face lay on the asphalt. There was no response. He looks so peaceful there on the ground, his lithe body, at rest. There was no blood on the pavement. His shaved head showed no signs of trauma. Maybe he is sleeping? Sometimes I think I would like to just lie there in the middle of what I am doing, too exhausted to carry on. There was a dreamlike quality to all this. Everything at a screeching halt, suspended. They were not ambulances? It was too soon. Where was his mother? I wanted to know, and I. wanted to know, too. "Don't cry, mommy, not while you are driving." She reached forward to comfort me. "Shhh. He's not dead," she tells me. "The good thing about my imaginary friends is that they tell me things, they can tell me the truth about things. They are telling me he is not dead, he is just unconscious. But, I wish his mommy were there."
And I envision the wail that would rip through me, tear my lungs apart. I don't cry anymore, can't always cry. Why was he on a scooter in the middle of the road? What was he doing there, in that precise moment at that exact angle? What sense does it make? How do you have tomorrow? And the next day? Why does it hurt so much to witness, to be impotent to reverse the damage, to console, to protect?
There is nothing to say, and yet, I need to testify.
posted by ilana at 6:05 p.m.
2 Comments:
Yo creo que nos exponen constantemente a cosas de muerte, en la tele, en la radio, en los periódicos para ver si uno se hace insensible. Pero cuando uno se topa de frente con ella, se da cuenta que hay cosas que la publicidad no puede vencer, como la condición de seres humanos y la indignación y el dolor por una muerte sin sentido.
Sí, me impactó mucho... creo que el día en que no me conmueva el dolor ajeno, mejor me retiro de este mundo... ojalá me duela siempre el horror ajeno.
Publicar un comentario
<< Home