Long neglected it sits there like a sentry. The top covered in a thick layer of dust. A box.... black, cold, and heavy. So heavy. Made of granite. On the face printed in gold is a lighthouse. A lighthouse to show lost souls a safe way home. A beacon in the dark. The box is forever sealed. It will never be opened. Its contents never viewed.
Why she would neglect it, not even she knew. Perhaps it was because it was too hard for her to accept what it was, what it held. Is that why she placed her son's picture in front of it? so she wouldn't have to see it. But yet she still wants it close. Needs to know that it is there. Inside she can faintly hear her own beating heart.
On that day when so many decisions had to be made, this is the one that the most thought went into. Nothing would ever be perfect enough but this seemed the closest. The lines were simple and elegant. Minimalistic. Made of natural stone. He would like that.
His eyes would have skimmed past the ornate floral urns and she felt certain they would have come to rest on the one she selected for him. She smiled knowing that he would have preferred the silhouette of an elegantly dressed gentleman to the gold lighthouse. Black on black. Even if there had been time, she, of course, would never have found such an urn. Funeral homes are more into symbolism. So having no other choice, she had to take the lighthouse.
There were two boxes actually. The cold, black one that sets on the buffet in a place of honor; and the slightly smaller, black box she carries with her in her heart. That box has a lock and a key although she doubts the key will ever be used. Mentally she has pushed the box to the far back corner of her heart. Sometimes she will go there in the dreamtime. She isn't always asleep when she dreams. It sits in a dark, cool corner hidden from all the other things she has placed inside her heart. This is her secret place.
She pushes aside the sheer curtains and settles herself down next to this object of light and dark mysteries. She lets her hand rest on the cold lid. Inside are all her memories - good and bad. Tales of joy, tales of shame, tales of adventures, tales of all that is good in her life and all that is bad; and inside this box lies tales of death. The memories are all hers. She has lived each one. She doesn't have to use the key. She knows what is there. For this is a box that she crafted herself.
Without opening the lid she pulls from the box her memory, at age five, of her father, a soldier. She barely remembered him even then. She had brief memories of him laughing and playing with her; and in one he was yelling - loudly. She remembered being so frightened that she hid under the blankets on the bed upstairs. Then he went away, she didn't know why, but she never saw him again. It was okay because she still had her mother and that really was all she needed.
One day she came into the bedroom and she saw her mother crying. Crying as though her heart had broken. "Why are you crying Mother?" She lifted me onto her lap and brushed my hair away from my face. "Your father has died." I was only five and didn't need to know more than that. I was sad because she was sad.
One of my happy memories during that time was sitting on the bed with my mother and two brothers and listening to the radio. Someone named Elizabeth was being crowned queen. I didn't understand all of it but I knew it had to a wonderful thing because all the people were cheering and Momma was smiling. Momma explained that what was happening on the radio was taking place in a far away land. She said this was a very important day that we should never forget. And I didn't.
I look deeper inside the box and memories of years far distant fly by like the rushing wind. There I am growing up, my Mom remarries, life is good. A little sister and brother are born. There's lots of laughter both at home and at school. My step dad adopts my brother and me. I graduate from high school. I travel to Europe that summer and in the fall I travel across the U.S. and back again. I get a job working for the FBI while waiting to go to college.
I move away from home and at age 20 I get married. Life is not good. My husband is not the kind, loving man I thought he was when we married. He is cruel. In spite of all the ugliness, a beautiful, precious little daughter is born. He adores her. He goes away to Viet Nam for a year. While he is gone, our first son is born. When he returns, he begins drinking heavily. He becomes an abusive alcoholic. We have two more children, Christian and Tiffany. During those years our children are the source of my joy and happiness. They are the lights of my life.
Looking further, I see myself sitting at the phone dialing a number. It is Thanksgiving and I am calling home to wish my Mom and Dad a Happy Thanksgiving. My sister-in-law answers the phone. When she hears my voice, she says nothing but quickly gets my Mother of the phone. How strange I think to myself. My Mother's sad voice tells me that my father has died that afternoon of a heart attack. I am heartbroken. I didn't know anything could hurt that much.
More years speed pass. I divorce. My Mother remarries. She marries a wonderful, funny, loving man. The children call him "Grandpa Jack". Everyone loves him.
More years pass and then one day I receive a telephone call from my Mother. Her voice is strained. There has been a car accident she says. Grandpa Jack is gone and so is his brother Don. Black, black days. So hard when you never get to say good-bye. Now she has loss three husbands.
Time passes and I remarry. His name is Patrick. He is a good, good man. He makes me laugh and shows me a life I never expected to call my own. My Mother also remarries. His name is Bob. Bob Artz. They move to Henderson, Nevada. Bob is a true gentleman. He and Momma are very happy and spend many wonderful years together. But then he, too, dies and my Mother is alone once again. I do not know how she endures such pain. She cries a lot and often. I know she will never be the same. She has lost the love of her life. She cries out to God, "Why do You take all the men I love?"
I thought Death was done with me. Done with our family. The idea of my Mother passing on is pushed as far from my mind as I can possibly get it. But, no, Death is not finished - not yet. He has one more tragedy waiting for me. One far, far worse than all the rest.
He slipped in on a cold January morning and stole from me my heart, my sunshine, my joy. He reached out with his icy cold hand, placed a gun to my son's head, and pulled the trigger. In the box is the sound of a gunshot, the smell of gun powder, crimson red blood, shards of bone, and my precious son's lifeless body. Never have I felt such pain. How could I possibly survive this much anguish? but somehow I kept on breathing.
My ex-husband follows our son in death four months later. As the years had passed, he and I had become very close. More so than when we were married. Age had mellowed him. I was still so numb from losing Christian that I felt nothing when I learned he had died. It was as though I had no more capacity for heartache or pain. I was empty and full all at the same time.
I wrap my arms tight around the box. I place my cheek against the top. Tears spill down and the box is covered in my tears. I cry until there are no more tears to cry. All of my memories are in that box. All the mysteries of life and the mysteries of death. I have lived them but I have yet to fully understand them. Why so much death in one family? in any family?
After Christian died, I cried out to Death again and again to take me; but that black-cloaked monster turned his back on me. He would not return to claim me. I would go on living. Perhaps it was God's Hand that stopped him - held him back. Perhaps my work on earth is not finished and I cannot leave until it is done. Perhaps.
Please do not think that I believe that my son resides in either of the black boxes. His ashes are in one, my memories of him are in the other; but his Spirit lives on. That cannot be captured in a vessel - real or imagined.
He lives on! He is in the sunshine that warms me; he is in the rain that makes the earth green; he is the colors in the rainbow; he is in the power of lightening and thunder. He blows in the wind and flies on the wings of an angel. He lights up Heaven with his smile. I feel his touch in the snowflakes that settles on my cheeks and on the tip of my nose. I see him in the twinkling stars above and in the face of the moon. He is the light reflected on the lake. He is in the crashing waves on the shore. He is in the snow on mountain peaks. He is in the gentle breeze in the trees.
I see him when his sons smile. I feel him in their hugs. He surrounds me with his love. He goes before me and prepares a place for me. He will be there waiting for me when my times comes.
With these thoughts, I close my eyes and leave this secret, hidden place in my heart. I put on my softest, warm pajamas, and climb into bed. I lay my head down on soft pillows and pull the down comforter over me. Tonight I will dream sweet dreams.
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From the "CITY OF ANGELS":
Seth: Why do people cry?
Maggie: What do you mean?
Seth: I mean, what happens physically?
Maggie: Well...umm...tear ducts operate on a normal basis to lubricate and protect the eye and when you have an emotion they overact and create tears.
Seth: Why? Why do they overact?
Maggie (pause): I don't know.
Seth: Maybe...maybe emotion becomes so intense your body just can't contain it. Your mind and feelings become too powerful, and your body weeps.
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