|
Stationhill.com |
Non-Fiction |
|
|
|
| Next | Back | Home | Fiction | Non-Fiction | Poems | Book Excerpts | Christine Non-Fiction by Lynne Cannon Many years have passed its true. Even time has not dulled the memory.
Her face, excited eyes, shrill laugh are still fresh vivid in my mind.
She chattered on, and on her good news. A new home, fresh start, a huge
garden swing. A little envious, I could not help but to feel happy for
her. Her joy was infectious. A delightful child, she deserved every
happiness in her young life. Darkness began to creep in. And she said
her good-byes, promising not to be a stranger. As she skipped up the
hilly street. I felt a little sad. Reaching the top, she turned to give
a vigorous wave. Children have an amazing perception, I knew something was not quite
right. My suspicions where aroused by whisperings. And an eerie sorrow
that seemed to make its way into our home unexplained. Curious, I
bombarded my parents with questions in an effort to discover the cause
of the secretive looks. My father grimly sat me down his voice wavered.
In the effort to tell me, he was obviously finding it
very difficult.
Christine had died. No, it could not be, children do not die. Old people
die, sick, tired and long lived. I needed to know why? It wasn’t fair.
My mother tearfully answered my questions. She had been murdered. In her
bed, her tiny baby sister still clung to life. I was angry. I refused to
believe it. For days people stood on corners her name was mentioned over and
over. At school the mood was solemn, people collected money for flowers.
We prayed for her, and her family. In the playground friends wept.
Children have a different perception of what death is and means. They
relayed stories heard, from adult conversations. Adding grizzly details
of her murder. A stranger had taken her life away, too soon. Destroyed a
beautiful, innocent being. Put an end to her simple hopes, robbed her
future, all in the swipe of an axe. Her last breath was not peaceful. No
arms held her, no words comforted. I felt her fear, her confusion. I
wanted to stop it. Take it away. Disbelief turned into reality. I would
never see her skip through streets, or listen to her chatter. Like a
disappearing vapor she was gone.
People lined the streets where we lived. The church too crowded we
stood outside to watch her coffin carried inside. The tiny wooden box
seemed insignificant she was not there. Thousands of brightly colored
flowers seemed misplaced. Amongst the black mourners, amongst the
blackness of the occasion. No words where uttered people stood silent.
Unreal, this couldn’t be? Sobbing mothers wiped tears. Her mother’s
pain was clear to them. My mother squeezed my hand tightly. She felt
guilty, at her relief, her assurance that her children where alive, and
safely by her side. I did not shed a tear that day; it all seemed too
unreal, dreamlike. My sadness numbed me into silence, my spirit sunk so
low it dragged my shoulders down with it. Too enwrapped in grief to lift
my head. I stared at the pavement. And the rain fell. Even the skies
grieved. Since I have visited her grave. The damp earth, the cold gray stones
were no place for her. As I read the writings. I sighed; I was not sure
why I came. Because she was not there. She was off somewhere
"skipping".
Lynne Cannon, contact: kmlcannon@ic24.net
|
