On my way home from the burial, I drive through the neighborhood where I lived 20 years ago. There is a wonderful sidewalk trail leading between the houses, through wooded areas, a small creek, a tiny footbridge or two along the way. You can’t see much of the path from the street, but I know it’s there. Despite the fact that spring comes every year to Kentucky, I am annually surprised when the season arrives. I am perpetually stunned by the beauty of the forsythia trees, Bradford pears, dogwoods. Green grass, blue sky. I’d forgotten how utterly breathtaking my “old” street looks in April.
As I drive along, I remember the last time I walked those neighborhood trails with my friend Sarah. Skipping along the sidewalk under the shady trees at sunset. Hopping over the footbridge. Laughing until we were out of breath. She lived clear on the other side of town, but it was not uncommon for her to be over at my house. My parents treated her as one of their own on those occasions. She was always welcome to share a meal, spend the night, play a game of ping-pong in the basement. I think she took a special kind of joy teasing my younger brother – whom she referred to as Bunya – as if he were her own younger brother. (Sarah was the youngest of four by 15 years.)
Sarah lived life without sugar, without alcohol. Not by choice. Between classes, Sarah would excuse herself to the restroom to inject insulin. It was never something she complained about, it was a disease she accepted even as a child. She was fiercely independent and never wanted to be pitied. Sarah fought tooth and nail for what she believed in –even if that was which color fountain pen (usually purple!) to write World Civ notes with. She marched to the beat of her own drum and didn’t put much stock in what other people thought of her. She just kept on marching whether or not they agreed with her direction. Sarah had the brightest smile. I’m trying to remember if I ever saw her cry? Once.
I’m watching the man from the funeral home turn a massive metal crank. The coffin is lowered into the ground. The crowd watches in silence. The man turns the crank slowly and we hear squealing noises as gears revolve and the body descends into the muddy hole. I feel like I am watching a horror movie in slow motion. CUT! I want to scream. This isn’t right. I want to push the funeral home man aside and turn that wretched crank and bring the casket back up. Sarah can’t breathe. CUT! This is all wrong. Sarah’s daughter sits on a dark brown folding chair. Her little legs aren’t quite long enough to touch the ground. I can’t breathe.
My mind knows Sarah is healed from her cancer. My mind knows her soul is in heaven. We’ve had many spiritual conversations, I’m certain she believed in Jesus. My heart just hasn’t caught up with my mind yet. My heart is wondering…why. She died on Easter Sunday, the day we celebrate Christ’s resurrection from the grave to heaven. How ironic. Or pre-ordained. Or both.
I slow the car and I am sitting in front of my “old” house. Wondering about my old room. Remembering Sarah curling my hair and helping me apply mascara for prom. In my peach colored room, in this house, April, 21 years ago.
I’m sitting on the porch this last day of Spring Break. I’m glad we stayed in Kentucky. The Bug and the Pea have spent the entire week outdoors with friends. Muddy bare feet, bikes, pink bubblegum. Hide and go seek and the ultimate spot no one thinks to look between the hedge and the house. Racing to the end of the avenue and back. Pizza on the porch and Easter candy for dessert. Cool grass, dandelions, four leaf clovers. And we move ever forward in the great mystery called life…
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