Most of my writing is driven by the question of how we hold life. Recently though, I’ve felt an even more basic pull: how does life unfold? With that, I’ve been writing stories. It’s felt good to let some blurriness in, and as far as learning and growth are concerned, the ground here is as fertile it is anywhere.
One of those stories is below. I do want to note: this one goes into the darkness in some gut-wrenching detail. I hope you read it, but more than that, I hope you take care of yourself.
Today is August 3rd. It’s the day that Kristen died.
It was the summer before my senior season, which I wanted to be a good one. Every day, either on my lunch break or when my shift ended, I’d run a 2-mile loop that took me around the neighborhood. I could either go right out of my driveway, down the tree-lined gravel road, or left, which opened up into the church parking lot; either way, the McDonalds was always the midpoint.
I wonder who she would be today. Twenty-one. Plenty old enough to wonder what you’re doing here, and to know love in the past tense. How might she have lived?
The summers here are hot. So hot. The afternoon in August can be unbearable. The humidity can get so thick that walking feels like swimming. I figured running in it would leave me ready for whatever I’d be fighting on the field. I’d usually leave a cup of ice water inside the screen door, and at the end I would kick hard, fueled by the knowledge that it was there at the top of the porch, waiting for me to dump it on myself.
I think about her father, tortured. I think of her mother and I wonder what any of us knows about forgiveness.
I went left that day. Fifty feet down the driveway, 100 to the parking lot. Along the tree line until it hit the cemetery, where I’d turn toward the main road. My feet had taken a million paces in this place, dating back to when the parking lot was a playground and a baseball field. To this day, few places could ever be so familiar.
It was the first time I saw Mom buy alcohol. She came home with a 6-pack of wine coolers a few days after it happened. She said she needed some help getting to sleep.
I didn’t get very far. Not to McDonald’s, or even the cemetery. Before I reached the basketball hoop that’s almost at the end of the parking lot, I was cutting back toward the screams.
I hear the family re-settled in another state, and that the marriage remains intact. On the fridge at my mom’s house, there are two holiday cards: an old one, of a little girl beaming and holding her baby brother. Another, with a young teenage boy, a young man, standing next to his parents.
The season ahead disappeared. The ice water disappeared. Even the heat, unfathomably, disappeared. There were only the shouts and wails coming from near the building, and the urgency. Do something. Run into the office. Tell them to call 911. Rush back outside behind mom. I stood there, powerless, knowing and not knowing the gravity around me.
Can we pray? Can we just pray? I took my mom’s hands, both of us shaking, and asked that question after the rescue squad had arrived and taken over. It felt like the only thing to do in that kind of panic, to turn toward that which makes the sun rise and the Earth spin and ask, beg, plead to be pulled through. I just wanted to surrender.
A 3-year-old little girl, whose name was Kristen and who lived next door to us, had been left in the car all day. Somehow, some way, her father had forgotten what he was supposed to do before going in to work. The unspeakable happened.
They carried her into the building, blue and green and so, so hot. They tried CPR, first her mother and then the EMTs. I don’t remember why or when I went home.
What came next was a minute, a week, 18 years. The anniversary marks scenes in my memory: asphalt on a carport, EMTs moving through double doors, a carpeted hallway with the afternoon sun stretching through the window. A white Dodge Durango with the rear door thrown open.
Fall writing classes
I've opened up registration for Finding the Words classes in the fall. They’re on Fridays in September and October, from 2-4 EST, and you can register here:
I’m also nailing down dates for another round of Finding the Words, Frisbee Edition, and a regular Finding the Words on evenings later in the fall. If you’re interested in either, let me know.
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Got feedback?
I know the writing in this entry was different from the norm; there aren’t any mentions of ultimate, and it’s not tethered to an explicit theme. I’ve been wondering how readers would receive it, and if you have any thoughts– good, bad, or otherwise– I’d be happy to hear them.
As always, sharing my newsletter with your friends goes a really long way!
Much love,
Jonathan