Moving On

It’s not like I am able to just walk away. Not only was I there, but it happened here, where I live. It didn’t happen to total strangers. I knew one. He lived upstairs, but over one unit. What I saw is imprinted in my head.

I had a hard time engaging today. Yesterday’s accident haunted me into the night. I stayed up until I was so tired sleep would not elude me. To help, I struggled through Sunday’s crossword puzzle. It was almost two in the morning before I surrendered.

I woke to the sounds of my neighbors. I stared at the ceiling listening to their day begin: the sound of water running in the shower, the blender making a smoothie in the kitchen, footsteps moving across the living room. Despite what happened, today was here and it was going to happen, despite shock, grief, pain and death. As long as God was creating time, the next day was coming.

A friend had given me a first rough draft to plow through. I was honored to be the first and only person to read it, but she wanted it back within a week. I made no promises that I could make my way through the 50,000 word document. But last night and today I was grateful to pour though the pages, offering suggestions and critic. A healthy distraction, to concentrate on someone else’s work.

When I wasn’t reading, I tended to my palms and ti plant, but even then I was keenly aware that on the other side of the fence two make shift memorials had been erected. On the far side of the street the telephone pole was cluttered with photos of the motorcyclist, an array of flowers, a San Diego Charger football jersey. On the bushes along the roadway in front of my unit sat a cluster of flowers, candles and torches. A Raiders’ plaque was tucked into the shrine. On each memorial, the names of the two men were posted. Between the two memorials investigation marks in white, orange and yellow dotted the street.

I mourned. This afternoon, Jennifer called and asked how I was doing. I had called my aunt on Maui last night to talk about the accident. Jennifer and I talked for almost an hour. I felt better after wards. Just talking. What cheap therapy we should all engage in more often.

At sundown I crossed the street stopping to look at each memorial. Oddly, I hold the motorcyclist at fault. But does it matter?

At the ocean’s edge, a huge winter surf pounded ashore. An angry red sun drop slowly through the clouds. I sat feeling the waves roll in and crash on the lava. An off shore wind caught the crest and blew a mist off the arched neck of each wave, like a flowing horse’s mane. The roar absorbed everything around me. I was lost.

As the sun hit the horizon, a humpback whale fully breached. To no one I exclaimed, “Whoa.” Others look, but he was gone. I waited for the encore. He never came back to the surface. I didn’t even see a blow hole mist. He completely vanished, but in that one moment he reconfirmed the power of life. I knew I would be alright. It was time for me to move ahead.