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Lately I take long walks by myself. I think about life and death-
things everyone wonders about, I suppose. Sometimes I walk for hours,
but I always end up at the same place.
Today it was a crisp November afternoon. Not one person was in'
sight when I arrived. My feet moved toward the little mound of dirt,
just as they had yesterday, the day before, and day before, every
day for the past month.
I took my usual kneeling position beside the small stone inscribed
with these sad tidings: "Here lies Timmy Landen, Born May 23, 1957,
Died October IV, 1965." The words sent new shocks up my spine, just
as I knew they would. For even after a month I still could not
believe it. When I thought of Timmy, I thought of a golden-haired
boy hurrying off to school or baseball practice, not a cold form
here with all these strangers.
Something else troubled me, and I don't think I will ever forget it.
I had come home from school after a long and hectic day. Mrs.
Trimble had decided our reports were due tomorrow instead of next
Friday. Mr. Johnson was kind enough to warn us of a history test
on the last five chapters to be given tomorrow. Anyway, dotted
here and there among these big headaches was my usual homework-
algebra and bookkeeping. I had come dragging into the house with
my "it's been a hard day" look. Mom knew better than to ask about
my day.
As I headed for my bedroom, I heard two small voices laughing. I
opened the door, and there sat Timmy and a little neighbor friend
at my desk, looking at my lipstick. They weren't making a mess.
In fact, they were being very careful not to. Anyway, this was the
straw that broke the camel's back, and I lost my temper. I told
them to get out and never to come into my room when I'm not home
and to "stay out of my stuff, you little pest!"
I must have called him a pest four or five times. How could I have
been so crude.
Tim's face turned beet red, and knew he was sorry and ashamed. He
even apologized, but oh no, I couldn't let him get away with it.
I had to be firm.
At the dinner table Tim was unusually quiet and didn't eat much;
but I guess I was the only one who noticed, because Mom and Dad
were talking about so-and-so and should they go to the reception
two hundred miles away. After supper I excused myself and got
down to work. While I was working I felt someone watching me. I
turned, and there stood Timmy in the doorway.
"Please close the door," I said curtly.
He hesitated, then slowly closed it, with a hurt, puzzled look.
"I'll make it up to him," I thought, then turned my thoughts
back to my work. The next morning was warm, and I felt fatigue
as I climbed out of bed. I hurriedly dressed and dashed out to
the breakfast table. I had five minutes to eat. Timmy was the
only one at the table. Mom was cooking eggs in the kitchen. As
I sat down, I felt his warm, brown eyes on me, and I met his
imploring gaze with a cool stare.
"Are you still mad at me?" he asked.
"I suppose so." I really wasn't, but I felt he hadn't learned
his lesson
"I'm sorry. I won't do it again."
"We'll see," I said cuttingly. Then hurriedly gulping the last of
my breakfast, I grabbed my books and ran for the bus stop, purposely
ignoring him. But as I hurried out the door, something about the
sadness in his eyes brought a guilty feelings, and I remember
thinking, "I'll make it up to him later." That was my trouble. I
was always in too much of a hurry to get close to him. I was too
busy with algebra to go to his school play. I was too busy with my
debate to go to his baseball game for an hour. I was always too
busy for him, and I could have made time so very easily. That was
the last time I saw him alive--there at the breakfast table. The
next time I saw him, he was lying under a white sheet. I had come
home from school as usual with my mind full of my usual thoughts.
I noticed my brother's badly twisted bike on the lawn. I suddenly
felt panic sweeping over me. I ran for the house, my heart beating
in my throat. The kitchen was quiet. There was no dinner cooking.
It was too quiet. The living room door was shut, and I was
terrified of the circumstances that were happening on the other
side; but the silence of the kitchen was too much to bear and I
found myself pushing the door open.
My mother was sitting in the rocking chair with Father kneeling by
her side, holding her shaking head. Their faces wore identical
expressions--very pale with eyes staring straight ahead. When Mom
saw me she stood up and took me in her shaking arms. I expected
the worst from that action, and my fears were confirmed as Dad
related the events of the last half hour.
Timmy had been in a hurry to get home and start on the new model
airplane Mom had bought him. He must not have been looking as he
came racing across the street. The driver of the car didn't see
him till it was too late. I had read this type of thing many times
in the newspapers; but it happened to other people, not to me, not
to my family. The next days were full of tears. I cried until my
eyes were dry and red and the tears just wouldn't come anymore.
I couldn't eat for days. I couldn't sleep very long. I would
always have the same dream of coming home from school that day.
I remembered so many small things he had done for getting bringing
me dandelions, showing me his new baseball bat (which I thought was
a bore). I am sure everyone has thought, "If only I could do it
again. If only I had one more chance."
Suddenly I wished more than anything to talk with him if for just
five minutes. And when he would ask me, "Are you still mad at me?"
with his brown eyes studying my face, I would take him in my arms
and say, "No, I'm not mad anymore, and I'll never be mad at you
again."
I slowly got to my feet from the misty grass. My legs were cramped
and stiff from kneeling so long. I pulled my coat tighter, because
November gets chilly in the late afternoon. Then I started for
home.
-- Elaine Thurman |
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