It should hurt, but it doesn't
As I peel back the dead layers to the new underneath
Untainted
Clean
But permanently ugly and scarred.
Monday, April 22, 2013
The last cigarette
It's been almost five years and still I fine this image burned into my brain.
I remember going to my uncles after I found out he had passed away. With my mom and my aunt a head of me, we picked our way through a field of forgotten toys to a small wooded area behind the dog cages. The Alaskan Malamutes that usually greeted passers-by with wagging tails and and barks "hello" didn't stand.
They hid in their wooden dog houses and whined. Their father and pack leader had died.
Under the canopy of dying leaves we followed a dirt path carved over the years by running kids and animals to a lop-sided electric fence. The humming I usually heard when nearing the barrier was gone and replaced by an eerie silence. I glanced behind me just as my mother and my aunt hoisted themselves over the fence, the house was visible through the foliage.
I wondered for a moment if I would still be able to see the house from the spot where my uncle had died.
Beyond the fence was a farmer's field of corn, not yet harvested for the year. It's tall green and yellow stalks flanked us as we walked further along the thin crooked road. We were about halfway down the path when my mother and aunt stopped.
Our path was blocked by a lawn chair, it's blue fabric stained dark on the left side. In the dip of the seat lay a box of cigarettes, newly opened with only one missing. I couldn't take my eyes off the small box, still so white and untouched by dirt or blood.
My aunt and I waited just behind the yellow caution tape; ground into the mud by a day and a half of foot traffic. It was all that was left of any police presence.
My mother had walked a head a little and couched on the edge of the scene, her hands covering her mouth; whether it was an attempt to quiet her crying or to filter out the smell of decay I did not know.
"Oh Fred, you goof." I heard my mother mumble between her fingers.
"He shot himself in the head Cor." my aunt had said after a while.
"We don't know that Cathy!"
"Look at the corn stalks Corrine!"
Finally, I was able to tear my eyes away from the cigarette box and flick my eyes up the tops of the corn stalks. The green was cut with small splatters of red.
My aunt turned around and put her arms around me and cried into my shoulder; my mother cried into her hands, and let my eyes drop to the pile of blood at the base of the chair. I squinted at the dark pile of gore. Flies covered the dark brown mound hungrily and from under the crusting blood I could just seen the sharp outline of skull.
I remember going to my uncles after I found out he had passed away. With my mom and my aunt a head of me, we picked our way through a field of forgotten toys to a small wooded area behind the dog cages. The Alaskan Malamutes that usually greeted passers-by with wagging tails and and barks "hello" didn't stand.
They hid in their wooden dog houses and whined. Their father and pack leader had died.
Under the canopy of dying leaves we followed a dirt path carved over the years by running kids and animals to a lop-sided electric fence. The humming I usually heard when nearing the barrier was gone and replaced by an eerie silence. I glanced behind me just as my mother and my aunt hoisted themselves over the fence, the house was visible through the foliage.
I wondered for a moment if I would still be able to see the house from the spot where my uncle had died.
Beyond the fence was a farmer's field of corn, not yet harvested for the year. It's tall green and yellow stalks flanked us as we walked further along the thin crooked road. We were about halfway down the path when my mother and aunt stopped.
Our path was blocked by a lawn chair, it's blue fabric stained dark on the left side. In the dip of the seat lay a box of cigarettes, newly opened with only one missing. I couldn't take my eyes off the small box, still so white and untouched by dirt or blood.
My aunt and I waited just behind the yellow caution tape; ground into the mud by a day and a half of foot traffic. It was all that was left of any police presence.
My mother had walked a head a little and couched on the edge of the scene, her hands covering her mouth; whether it was an attempt to quiet her crying or to filter out the smell of decay I did not know.
"Oh Fred, you goof." I heard my mother mumble between her fingers.
"He shot himself in the head Cor." my aunt had said after a while.
"We don't know that Cathy!"
"Look at the corn stalks Corrine!"
Finally, I was able to tear my eyes away from the cigarette box and flick my eyes up the tops of the corn stalks. The green was cut with small splatters of red.
My aunt turned around and put her arms around me and cried into my shoulder; my mother cried into her hands, and let my eyes drop to the pile of blood at the base of the chair. I squinted at the dark pile of gore. Flies covered the dark brown mound hungrily and from under the crusting blood I could just seen the sharp outline of skull.
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