Vol IV: #61 Sons and Grief
I’ll never forget my weeping grandmother, her body slumped over a gray casket just before they lowered her youngest son into the ground. Through her tears, she cried “not my baby” as heavy raindrops fell. It was grief in it’s purest form, the suffering groan of her soul. And if you think it’s bad enough to lose a son so young, consider this: her baby boy, the last child of her womb, was the last of three she buried. On that day dreary, even at ten, I knew her tears and sorrow came from deeper place, one labeled “not again.”
Young men are reckless and stupid. And in our recklessness we try drugs, drive too fast, and misuse firearms. My uncle died from the head injuries sustained when he run his Ford Probe into a tree on a dark rocky country road. The hood had doubled back onto the vehicle, smashing the roof. That image kept me from trying alcohol for a long time, but not completely. Didn’t keep me from driving drunk and wondering how I got home. And to this day, I’m thankful I made it out of my early twenties. Thankful my mother and father didn’t have to plan my funeral too.
Why am I writing all this? Because, last week, another young man in my orbit, another early twenty something, died. And it’s sad, and nothing can make it alright. Not even the logic of knowing how young men are. His mother doesn’t care about all the other dumb boys. She asking all questions a mother asks, and grieving as she should. And I’m writing this because I’m tired of men dying and the reaction being one of passive acceptance. Young men don’t die like this in other developed countries, not at these rates and ways. And as a result, the life expectancy for men is dropping and it’s dropping fast.
This post isn’t the place for me to air my grievances with our culture or society, though they are legion. That’s for another day. (Public schools, I’m staring directly at you. You soul destroying pack of cats.) No. This post is about me trying to process some long held grief. When my uncle died, I cried for him. And this week I cried for all the mothers and fathers left to grieve.
