That Day

I still cry. I know that's not unusual. It's been almost a month and I still find myself with wet eyes. I didn't expect to cry at all. I actually first heard about the incident at work. I work in a school district, at a school she used to attend, and I was talking to the teachers when I got in.

"Two former students were in a car accident today and one of them died," I was told. I thought, Gee, that sucks. It didn't cross my mind that I knew kids who went to school here, that I had had family that went to school here. It's never expected that it might be someone you knew.

But her statement got me thinking about death. I've known people who died before. My grandfathers, but they were old and had been sick for years. They'd lived their lives and everyone saw it coming. It was sad, but I knew that whatever had happened to them was better than the pain they had been living in. A boy younger than me died, too. I went to school with him. I had directed a show he was in. He was a lot of fun. Drove me absolutely crazy most of the time, but I liked him. Hit by a train. Sudden, unexpected, horrific death. And that didn't really bother me, either. He should have been paying more attention. It was a terrible tragedy, and he was the one who could have prevented it. I think I took comfort in that.

I had felt death before. And it hadn't bothered me very much. I think I cried once for each of them because I felt that I was supposed to. I didn't do it because I was so upset, or it hurt so badly. I did it out of obligation. So, I reasoned, I just didn't react to death the way other people do. Death was okay with me, I figured. Like a permanent move to Europe.

I was in shock when my aunt found me and told me the news. Really? Are you sure? That can't be. Really? She drove me home from work. I didn't know what to do with myself. Mom was with grandma and Dad was I don't even know where. The house was empty. I didn't know if I should be calling people or going somewhere or doing something. I kept roaming the house, upstairs and downstairs, from the kitchen to my bedroom to the living room and back to the kitchen again, hoping that each time I went somewhere else I would figure out how I was supposed to act.

I sat on the porch. It was sunny. The neighbor kids were out playing in their yard. I set my head on my knees and I cried. For her, for her family, for her friends, for everyone who loved her, for all those that would be completely heartbroken to not have her anymore.

And honestly, that was everyone. I cried for everyone, knowing that that was the only thing I could do.

This is How it Is

My cousin passed away three weeks ago.

God. I keep saying that, even though I don't mean to. Passed. What a ridiculous phrase. Passed on what? Life? Like she just woke up that morning and said, "You know what? I think I'll pass on living today. Maybe tomorrow." Fucking ridiculous. All the euphemisms for death are. The only one I like is "kicked the bucket." It sounds feisty. It sounds like a person who didn't go quietly, who wanted to stay. Someone who had other ideas and plans, things to do besides dying and didn't really appreciate being taken from those things. That sounds a lot like her. She was feisty, too.

She was an amazing person. And that's not just one of those things where everyone starts saying nice things about a person once they've died, like it's more respectful to lie about who that person was. This isn't respectful lies. She was just an amazing person. She had values and morals, and she stuck to them. She knew what she wanted out of life, what she wanted to do, who she wanted to be, and she worked towards that. You couldn't pressure her into anything. She stuck to her guns. She was friends with everybody. Just about anyone you talk to would say, "She was my best friend." She had that teenage girl I-know-everything attitude that could drive you crazy, but she was usually right. She was outside beautiful, too, always smiling and laughing. She was destined for great things.

At least, that's what we all thought. Now no one knows what to think. In so many ways, I'm so sick of thinking, and yet I can't stop myself. I can't stop myself from remembering who she was, how she was, thinking of the last time I saw her, and wondering what her death was like.

Was she scared? She must have been, but for some reason I don't think she was. Maybe that's only my mind trying to comfort me, I don't know. But I don't think she was scared. I think she understood. I think she understood the purpose in that moment, that she could see the whole plan and accept it for what it was. I think the instant before her truck slammed into that tree, when she was airborne, flying, she had the answers that we all long for. She saw how complete her life was. She saw what we are left imagining, hoping, unable to understand.

This is what I believe. This is what I have to believe. I might go crazy if I didn't.

How to do this ...

Is there a polite way to ask people who are in pain to talk to you about their pain?

I want answers. No, that's not accurate. I need answers. I need information in order to feel sane. There's a lack of information here, a lack of knowledge. When I'm angry or upset, I'll start to organize things. I'll clean my room or sort through my mail or file away all of my papers. The act of physically organizing forces my brain to put itself into order. But there's no amount of organizing that will put this into order until I've gleaned all of the information that I can.

I want to ask. I want to call, e-mail, get in touch however I can with anyone who can give me the details that I need.

This story ... This story has to be accurate. I'm having the hardest time writing it, getting through it, because I know that the fact's aren't right. I need to know more about the other girl. But I can't very well barge in on her family and say, "Hey, I know you're struggling and you have no idea who I am, but I'd really like it if you could tell me everything about your daughter so that I can properly write her into my story." Somehow, I don't think that will go over well. I need more details about the accident itself. What do the police theorize? Could it have happened the way I imagine it did? What about the physics of it? Can I get numbers on weight and force and put it all into a proper mathematical equation?

There's only one part of this story that I know about for sure, and even that's not as clear as I would like it to be. She was my cousin, but she wasn't my best friend. I've known her since she was born, but I don't think I ever really knew her. I loved her and I'm so lost and grieving right now, but I feel guilty about that.

I need this story and this information, but I don't know how to do it. I don't feel like I'm close enough to just ask. I don't think there's enough tact in the world that can phrase my questions without causing more pain. And would it help them? Or hurt them more? If I asked, I mean. If I asked them to talk about their pain, knowing that I'm hardly anyone and barely worthy of helping them unburden themselves. I'm at such a loss and I have nothing to do to calm myself.

If I get something wrong, I won't be able to accept it. Shit.