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We, as an extended family of my brother were all in a place of being distraught over
the second anniversary of his death, March 6. Then came the burial of Ronnie,
adopted brother. Each one was going through
chores of house keeping and all the parts of life and living with something heavy
on our shoulders like a cloak we wanted to throw off but couldn’t. My mind was going
to the baskets we set out for give-away, four of them holding the things that were Mike's. I can't even think about Ronnie's memorial a year from March 11.
A heavy pair of leather gloves, some sandpaper, a wine glass filled with peanuts in their
shells, a book he loved, a shirt in Native design with the rain bird running across the back.
All rested on Mike's grave to be handed out to four people of his age.
When the Tsunami hit, March 11, 2011, the same grief we felt over my brothers was simply
moved to a new place in our heart. The exact heaviness on our shoulders walked around
with us as we went about spring preparation with not the joy of our usual sweet anticipation
of seeing green things growing again. The horror of water sweeping over sweet babies and
enduring grandmothers and grandfathers was just too much. We watched the television until
the sorrows of it forced us to not look anymore.
With almost a feeling of guilt upon me do I go about my usual happy spring preparations for gardening. The tiny beet seeds have shot up, house plants are divided to share for showers,
funerals, etc. To see the shoots of a row of tulips I put out last fall poking up only makes
me sad. Lowe’s had sold all the tulips except black. Those were marked way down
to almost nothing and I put them in the ground. Now they only remind me of the black,
dark waters of the Tsunami as it rolled over the town in Japan.
If a visit to town is necessary I am reminded again of my insecurities because all the clerks
are deep into an angry, scowling behavior. To want to cheer them with a pleasantry I know
would only be met with a cold stare, so I do refrain from any comment.
My anger and sorrow over death is vented by cutting out the overgrown hedge between the police officer’s house and mine.
“Why are we cutting this out?” My kind nephew, who is helping me, asks.
“Because I do not want some one to stand behind this and surprise our sheriff some late night
as he steps out of his car.” I inform him. “The scriptures advise us about our responsibility in caring for life and speaks of ‘The blood being on our hands’ if we do not live up to protecting life when we could have done so.
“Or shoots you as you look out the door to see what is happening?” My nephew is an alert and thinking person.
“Hmmmm! Never thought of that.” I had to smile over the Jones culture from wherever, Wales, Ireland, Scotland to find humor in the worst of circumstances. When was that passed on to my nephew?
the second anniversary of his death, March 6. Then came the burial of Ronnie,
adopted brother. Each one was going through
chores of house keeping and all the parts of life and living with something heavy
on our shoulders like a cloak we wanted to throw off but couldn’t. My mind was going
to the baskets we set out for give-away, four of them holding the things that were Mike's. I can't even think about Ronnie's memorial a year from March 11.
A heavy pair of leather gloves, some sandpaper, a wine glass filled with peanuts in their
shells, a book he loved, a shirt in Native design with the rain bird running across the back.
All rested on Mike's grave to be handed out to four people of his age.
When the Tsunami hit, March 11, 2011, the same grief we felt over my brothers was simply
moved to a new place in our heart. The exact heaviness on our shoulders walked around
with us as we went about spring preparation with not the joy of our usual sweet anticipation
of seeing green things growing again. The horror of water sweeping over sweet babies and
enduring grandmothers and grandfathers was just too much. We watched the television until
the sorrows of it forced us to not look anymore.
With almost a feeling of guilt upon me do I go about my usual happy spring preparations for gardening. The tiny beet seeds have shot up, house plants are divided to share for showers,
funerals, etc. To see the shoots of a row of tulips I put out last fall poking up only makes
me sad. Lowe’s had sold all the tulips except black. Those were marked way down
to almost nothing and I put them in the ground. Now they only remind me of the black,
dark waters of the Tsunami as it rolled over the town in Japan.
If a visit to town is necessary I am reminded again of my insecurities because all the clerks
are deep into an angry, scowling behavior. To want to cheer them with a pleasantry I know
would only be met with a cold stare, so I do refrain from any comment.
My anger and sorrow over death is vented by cutting out the overgrown hedge between the police officer’s house and mine.
“Why are we cutting this out?” My kind nephew, who is helping me, asks.
“Because I do not want some one to stand behind this and surprise our sheriff some late night
as he steps out of his car.” I inform him. “The scriptures advise us about our responsibility in caring for life and speaks of ‘The blood being on our hands’ if we do not live up to protecting life when we could have done so.
“Or shoots you as you look out the door to see what is happening?” My nephew is an alert and thinking person.
“Hmmmm! Never thought of that.” I had to smile over the Jones culture from wherever, Wales, Ireland, Scotland to find humor in the worst of circumstances. When was that passed on to my nephew?
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