“There are some griefs so loud. They could bring down the sky…”
I’m missing my mother something fierce after the sudden death of her brother. Uncle Bill was only 61. Three hundred miles away and an upcoming trip abroad deprives me of the ritual of gathering with family.
When I reach my sister on her cell, I find her at the home of the deceased. The coroner has just come to pronounce the d-e-a-t-h, and she describes our uncle’s appearance as peaceful and young.
Bill called his brother the day before to complain of indigestion, and then lied down on the couch with the dog–who was still trying to stir him hours later–when his wife arrived home to find her life incomprehensibly altered.
Bridgeen’s screams of anguish shake the background of my call. My sister hands her the phone, and I encounter: The Banshee.
Although not always seen, the Banshee’s call is heard, usually at night–in earth rattling wails.
I silence my own tongue each time I’m tempted to offer words of comfort–and simply let my Aunt Bridgeen “be”–in the madness of grief.
No doubt, she won’t remember the call. But I will. It’s the call we each receive when it’s our turn to have our hearts ripped apart.
Today is the Fools Day, April 1st, and here in the Green Mountains of Vermont, it is snowing something fierce. This prolonged end of winter can make the soul sick so I’ve filled my house with flowers.
As I look past the blooms into the white world outside, my eyes catch the sight of the miniature, coral carnations drooping. These were the blossoms meant for longevity.
Regrets aside, I notice how their passing lends a greater beauty to the life left behind.
Kelly Salasin, April 1, 2011