| Subject: Pound. by Cabbie Esq |
Author:
Holly
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Date Posted: 18:24:47 03/02/01 Fri
nd" - another 'kid' prosey thing....I might have been a teensy bit depressed when I wrote this :)
Sunday, 12-Dec-99 23:49:27
208.240.171.176 writes:
Pound
We buried my father yesterday. It was windy and my hair kept flying into my eyes, getting in the way of tears that
would not come. I don't remember what the rabbi said other than it pissed the living f--- out of me. He didn't know
my father. Didn't know the suffering he went through those last months, the pain of anxious waiting. How dare the
rabbi say that my father was "humbled." Never. Papa died shaking a fist at God who was taking him early. Furious.
My son knew my father, though. Twenty-two months old and he knew how my father suffered. Little Jared would tilt
his head and look at my father sitting on the couch at his condominium or at our home. Smiling, he would say, "Hi,
Papa!" No matter the agony he was in, my father would unfailingly smile back and say, "Hi, Jared!" My son then
would stomp around the living room, parading his energy and daring. As if to say, "If you can't walk, then I will. If
you can't jump, then I will. For you."
Then, just as that power of a toddler seemed about to fade out, a firecracker sputtering its last sparks, Jared would
turn around and make a funny face. Gotcha! Only Jared could evoke my father's guffaw and he seemed to know that.
He would perform for my father. For that laugh. For that energy. And when I heard my father laugh the way he did at
my son, for a minute I would forget he was dying.
While the rabbi droned on, I watched Jared march among the headstones in the cemetery. His giggle was carried by
that invasive breeze, he drawing blank glances from the funeral attendees. Jared would stop at some of the markers,
squat down and study them. Then, he would stand up and step on them. Jump up and down a bit, then leave to go to
the next one. I couldn't tell how he decided which ones he would tamp down on. Every so often he would shout,
"Mommy!" I would glance over at him, but he would already be on his way, not really needing me. I don't know what
I would have done had Jared not been there.
Unlike the rabbi, Jared knew Papa. That Papa was indeed powerful among the dead and not humbled. Jared
pounded down on the granite, like we all wanted to. Pounded down on death. "You can't get me!" Nothing like the
innocence of a baby.
The rabbi finally stopped talking. Closed the Book. Looked morose. Gave false sympathy to me, my sister and
brother. The workers lowered the casket and I heard Jared talking to my husband, in baby talk that only we could
understand, "Daddy, where's Papa?"
"Heaven."
"No he's not!"
"Of course he is."
"NO! He's with me!"
I could no longer see the casket anymore and my brother was asked to put the first handful of dirt on the casket.
Stony faced, he did so. We all did. The wind was still biting me. Still harassing me. Jared suddenly went running too
close to the open grave and someone grabbed him before I could, preventing him from falling in. My uncle, I think, let
him take a fistful of dirt and throw it into the gaping hole.
Jared wanted to do more because it didn't really mean anything. Papa wasn't in that box. Papa was with Jared.
Running among the gravestones. Pounding on death.
Gotcha.
1999 Copyright by Cabbie Esq
Cabbie Esq
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