The Picture In My Mind

(This story was actually written years ago.  I just recently re-read it and decided to post it.)

My cousin Tami buried her son today.  He was 18, almost 19.  He was killed on Friday in a car wreck on the highway a short ways from their house.  

Tami had been on my mind for the last several days.  No reason.  None that I could think of anyway.  Just fleeting thoughts of her kept crossing my mind throughout the days.

I kept thinking about the day I’d spent with her last July.  We had talked, and laughed, all afternoon.  And I remembered being so impressed by her.  By her candor.  By what a hard worker she was.  By what a good mom she was.  And by what a strong woman she’d become.

She had told me that afternoon about her boys, ages 18 and 16.  Both had dropped out of school.  Both were unsure of what they wanted to do with their lives. Both really were good boys.  She was worried about them.  They were her life, she’d said.

Then my mom called this morning.  To let me know.

Of the 20-some cousins I have on my dad’s side, Tami is the only one my age. Growing up, our lives were quite different.  We grew up 1000 miles away from each other, and worlds apart.  We became pen pals in about the third grade, so there’s always been a connection there between the two of us.  We have a lot of cousins.  But Tami has always been my very own cousin.

So I called her tonight.  Having no idea what to say.  Just wanting to express my sorrow at hearing about her boy.

“This is the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do,” she said, simply. 

Then she started to tell me about the night her son was killed.  She told about saying good night to him as he left with friends to go to a movie.  She told about getting a phone call half an hour later from one of his friends saying that the car he had been riding in had been in a bad accident out on the highway. She told about racing to get dressed, and jumping into the car with her husband Dwight to drive to the scene of the accident and make sure Scott was okay. 

I sat on the edge of our bed.  Listening, with my eyes closed.  Picturing all that she described. 

“It was such a cold night,” she said.  “We got out there.  And there were fire trucks and police cars all over the place.  I couldn’t even see the car Scott had been in.  There was another car there.  But I didn’t see Scott’s friend’s car.  Then I noticed it way out in the field.  It had been hit so hard that it got knocked way off the road out into a field.”

Images of a smashed-up car, at rest, off in an empty cornfield, came into my mind. I thought about how quiet it must have been out on that country highway, after what was probably a deafening impact of a collision.  Out in an empty field.  On a cold night.

She told me about the coroner finally coming up to talk with them, and her asking repeatedly which hospital they were taking Scott to.   But no one would answer her.  Then while the coroner was still talking to them she watched them stretch out a tarp to block her view while they lifted a body out of the car.   “And they didn’t carry that body to an ambulance like they had all the other bodies,” she said.  Instead they had walked over and put that body in the coroner’s car.   

They were told that he died on impact.  “So I guess that’s a good thing anyway.  He didn’t suffer.”  Then they were told that they should go home.  “And I said, ‘I’m not leaving here until Scott leaves.’  So, we waited, you know.  Finally the coroner’s car left.  And then I lost it.  Oh man, did I lose it.  Right there on the side of the highway with cop cars and fire trucks all around me. I kind of sank to my knees and screamed. I think people in three counties must have heard me.”

She laughed then.  A small, self-conscious laugh.  And I told her that I thought it would have been a stranger thing if she hadn’t lost it.

She continued on, telling me about how the rest of the night had gone.  How her other son was doing.  How hard it was on her husband.  She told me about the wake, and the funeral, and the burial. She said she wasn’t sleeping.  And that her sister was concerned that she wasn’t crying enough.  We talked about what constitutes “enough” crying, and whether that’s actually physiologically possible.

We laughed some.  About little things.  Stupid things.  She hesitated a few times.  And I kept having to swallow hard, like something was caught in my throat.  She asked how my family was.  I told her everyone was fine, but that one of our kids had broken her arm.  She said she was sorry to hear that.  And I winced a little at that.

I told her again that I was so sorry that this had happened.  That I would be keeping them in my prayers.  And that I would call again in a week or two just to check in on her.

“I’m glad you called,” she said.  “I love you.”

I said I knew that, and that I loved her too.  Then I hung up.  And I just sat there on the side of the bed for a few minutes.  Until the tears started to come.

So tonight I’m sitting here in the dark thinking, and crying.  I’m thinking about my cousin Tami who buried her son today. And I’m wondering if she’s getting any sleep at all tonight.  I’m thinking about Scott, whose life seemed at times to be a struggle.  And I’m hoping he’s enjoying Heaven.  

In my mind I can picture the scene Tami described.  And I keep thinking about that car that was hit so hard it got knocked clear off the highway and out into an empty field.  I keep thinking how, in the moment after impact, and before any of the sirens started, it must have been so quiet out there in that field. Almost peaceful.  And I wonder if that wasn’t the moment when the angels came to get Scott out of the car and take him Home.  

And I can picture Tami, his mom, waiting on the side of the highway. Stubbornly refusing to leave until her son left.  Keeping watch.  And then crumbling to her knees in the snow.  And I wonder if God wasn’t right there that night, too.  On the side of that highway.  Standing in the snow.  Waiting for the coroner’s car to pull away.  With His arms wrapped around a grieving mom and dad.  Whispering to them that it would be okay.  That Scott was fine.  Just holding them.  With tears streaming down His cheeks.  Knowing full well what it was to lose a son.

That’s the picture in my mind, anyway.

Tami and Dwight—Thank you for letting me tell your story.  Love you. R