barbtries a blog: Prose Poem Occasionally Rhyming, or Massive Trauma to the Head

Saturday, December 04, 2004

Prose Poem Occasionally Rhyming, or Massive Trauma to the Head

"A simple child,
That lightly draws its breath,
And feels its life in every limb,
What should it know of death?"
- Spencer, "We are Seven" Stanza 1

Prose Poem Occasionally Rhyming
or
Massive Trauma to the Head

That Bekah is killed I would rather not learn.

Her father had a head start on his grief. He got to: Hear the policeman knocking on his door. See the policeman standing on his porch. Attach faces and bodies and uniforms of strangers to the genesis of his horror.
Mine is born in the beep-beep-beep that means there is a message, though the outgoing advises callers as to the number of my cell. Knocked offline I dial once, oblivious still to the fact that fate and an evil alcoholic are propelling me inexorably into hell.

It is his wife she has been crying she says we have sad news.

A hush settles over my heart which has spontaneously turned combustible crystal bone china as prone to breakage as a guileless child's.

Again I dial.

Her father. What is it! I am loud I know when I hear what he says I will need to wail...my 17-year-old son has just begun to drive...they live in the treacherous hills of Palos Verdes...my voice rises in rehearsal tell me

Bekah...is dead...her father's voice always tended to fade from the force of his emotion. He never did much care to put his feelings on display. Bekah...is dead

I emote appropriately and tearlessly. I say huh-uh that cannot be - I say why didn't you call me. He says I didn't want to hear what I am hearing. He says I knew what this news would do to you.
How? She was run over or that early on did he say she was hit by a car? Such a huge informative difference there but as of yet we were both unaware. Scarcely capable of belief or even knowing how to believe what cannot be.

I go through motions of motherly grief. Gather from him numbers demand that he bring Andy to me...Andy must be here bring him to me. From somewhere in the rubble the shattered refuse of my heart I know that Andy must be with me. He agrees.

In the silence where that call used to be, I try on my brand-new grief. Obviously this is way too big for me. Certainly it is much too pricey. My girl is not currency, she is the heart and the soul of me and you know, she is a lot of what is good about me.
I must have my family next to me. Telephone call number three: Bekah's big brother commences crying instantly and continues crying constantly. Later I learn he does not eat for the better part of a week.

What did her father say to me? I do not believe. Let me see...call the police. My ex-husband tells me my daughter is dead can you verify that information for me? A man says yes unfortunately Rebekah expired after being struck by a hit and run driver. Someone killed her with a car cold-bloodedly. He says officers are making an arrest as we speak. He is forced by his position to respond with insanity to my utterly logical pleas. When I tell him exactly what I think, he has no answer at all for me.

You have my deepest sympathy, he says to me.

I am not crying why at this time. I am not crying at all. I am a tax-paying citizen lodging a complaint. This makes absolutely no sense to me. Sorry to say your sympathy does not do crap for me. She is 21 years old she is perfectly healthy. She goes to school she holds a job she is planning all sorts of things. If she is dead that shoots her plans all straight to hell. I tell him well, that is really messed up. I give him many opportunities to change his story.

I am so sorry, he repeats.

If I wail very very loudly will I begin to believe? I wake up Rory practicing. I say yes she is dead. I tell my little boy what I do not believe. I call Lizzy, she knows already. A lot of people know before me. Please put Paul on the phone with me...nobody who knows her has seen my girl since before she was even supposedly deceased. Give me a reason to believe what I cannot believe...what I do believe I should not have to believe. It should not be this should not be
Paul cannot talk, not really. He is fully owned by abject grief. He is who she was going to see. He chokes and tells me tearfully, "Bekah was the love of my life." He was inside the building too far to hear a thing...needs a smoke on the street there's an exciting scene...choppers flying flashing lights flares lots of peeps. What's up with this he thinks, then sees: Bekah's car, parked across the street...? Suck in breath, her little blue bag on the ground? Panic rising even before he sees Bekah's Skechers in the street. She loves those shoes. What does it mean?
The firemen will know. He makes his way to the engine shielding bystanders from the sight of a large red pool. Paul's anxiety level gains him early access to the truth. She's been transported and pronounced they say eyes somber and shot with pity. He says, "So? Is she okay?" He says this so that later on we will have some comic relief.

Hours in the "living" room, her brothers her father and I. Wailing tearless will I ever cry? Mind watching Bekah die countless times shuddering why creeping in. Trying to fathom whether I can bear to bury her without one more hug. Her father says this is what happened. They came to the door.…
At the hospital they said we are sorry to inform you that your daughter died. He broke down and cried her father said
And the doctor went on to say you do not have to identify
She sustained a massive trauma to the head.
We have her ID you can be satisfied
It is definitely your daughter and we are certain that she is dead.

Then I start getting to know coming to learn
About the crystallization and the facets and reality
Of what was once useless worry and formless dread
They are saying here's your horror own this nightmare
As I stare sleepless at an untouched bed
Massive trauma to the head.

Are her eyes intact? I wonder but cannot ask, if her eyes were shredded I cannot face that fact, though I say I must know everything. It only means I will strain their vocabulary and their tact, will test detectives and attorneys on telephone calls with questions not much less gory than the facts.
The detective stalls. Searches words. doesn't matter, not really.

None of us ever heard worse.

In a few days a few details dropped casually and then I'm crazy saying let me know first. Don't make me look. She should look. I notice inside all this noise it is quieter than it has ever been for all of the past 21 years. Wait for the tears in a state distinguished from dead by not much more than a single beat or breath ... wiped out in an instant

Massive trauma to the head
I learn that Bekah is dead.

- posted by barbara @ 12/04/2004 10:53:00 AM

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