Somewhere

The sangria flowed from a silver pitcher; it is the wine of celebration. The cacophony of the crowd cascades from the bar, spilling over into  the restaurant and filling it with unnerving noise.

It is not the best of days. It’s raining and the sky hangs over me like a shroud.

Somewhere a mother cannot afford to feed her children; somewhere a father, out of work, sobs in desperation. Somewhere, this moment, a child is being abused.

Somewhere, this moment, someone is dying.

I sit alone in a noisy restaurant; the dim romantic lighting only increases my sullen mood.

Somewhere a heart is breaking. Somewhere someone is running out of time.

The waiter, dressed in festive Mexican attire, asks if I’d like anything else. I say, “No, thanks” but I want to say, “Yes, there are many things I’d like. I’d like a miracle for a friend who is dying. Do you have miracles on special today? If so, I’ll take two, one for my friend and one for me.” But I don’t, and he says, “Have a nice evening”, and I without thinking, say, “You too.”

I pay the bill and walk out into the parking lot; it’s glistening in the rain.

I walk between the rows of cars and find mine, and I get in.

Somewhere a little girl is starving; somewhere a little boy dreams of a baseball glove his parents cannot afford to buy.

The streets are wet and the headlights reflecting off them meld with my thoughts and mesmerize me. I should not be driving; I do not know where I am. I don’t know where I’m going. The drone of the tires splashing on the wet road provides the perfect music – sullen and monotonous and indefinable. I listen to the dreary drone.

Somewhere a father is abandons his children; somewhere a mother cries for her dying child.

Somehow I find my way home: my mind on autopilot?

I don’t know what time it is. I look up and see a nice house. It is mine, and it is much nicer than I remember it being. There is a single light on, and it looks cozy and welcoming. I stand outside on the lawn and look up at the house; it was once the house of my dreams. Now it is the house of broken dreams and broken promises. I don’t want to go in yet. I stand outside in the rain and watch the shallowness of dreams float by me in the rain: ghostly clouds of might-have-beens and used-to-be’s.

Life can be cruel and heartless and cold. Though the summer rain is warm and the air is hot and muggy, I shiver in it. I think about the world in which I live and I recall a line from a poem I once read – but I cannot remember who wrote it. It doesn’t matter; the words play over and over in my head:

“…and I a stranger in a parade
In a world I never made.”

My mind tosses thoughts around: I think everyone pretends to be sure of things, but I’m sure that no one is really sure of anything; how can they be? Our lives dangle on the most gossamer of threads, and we all hang precariously from them. One minute we are laughing, celebrating some joyous event, and the next minute we could be lying in a room filled with buzzing machinery – kept alive by tubes, and pumping things and electricity, and dearly holding on to the only thing we think we know for sure: life.

I wonder if we realize then – if we able to realize anything then – that we don’t know life at all. I wonder if, on the precipice of death, we feel a little betrayed by life: Is it ever long enough? Is it ever good enough? Will I lie on my bed of death and regret the things I’ve done? Or is it even worse to stare into the face of death thinking of the things I should have done but didn’t do?

Somewhere a father lies dying; somewhere a mother grieves. Somewhere a child is afraid and crying.

It’s raining harder now, and great bolts of lightning compel me to go inside. I open the door and though it is empty and quiet, I feel that familiar tension in the air. I can always feel it. I notice too, the faint odor of sour memories and the bitter smell of broken dreams.

The house feels as lonely as I do

I want to get out of the house; I want to run away from it, but it is raining and the storm is breaking branches from the trees. I listen to the rain pounding on the windows and rumbles of thunder gurgling from the bowels of angry clouds. I watch majestic, yet frightening, tendrils of lightning spread heat and fire across the sky.

I think so many things; my thoughts are spinning; they are very loud and remind me of the cacophony that echoed from the bar at the restaurant. I am overcome by thoughts now out of control. I cannot run away from the swirling noise that pours from mind and flows out and fills the room.

The monster is me.

Somewhere a family is struggling to survive; somewhere a mother hears her children begging for something to eat, but has no food to give them. Somewhere a family sails a blue-green sea on a yacht – eating dinner in luxury – oblivious and exalted. It is the yacht of good fortune; its name is Luck.

I am alone, just like you. Aren’t we all, really?

The house is dark and lonely, and I think of my friend lying in a hospital bed being kept alive by tubes; a machine is breathing for him. I wait for the phone to ring and hoping it doesn’t, but I’m quite sure it will. When it does how will I feel? I can’t know that – you can’t rehearse for death.

I am socially clumsy and I am sure I won’t know what to say, so I mull a few polite phrases over in my mind, hoping I will know what to say when the call comes.

I know it will come, but hoping with all my heart that it doesn’t.

But I can’t practice for the death of a friend anymore than I can practice for my own.

So I sit in the dark and watch the storm, and hope for the best. I know exactly what I’ll say if, by some miracle, my friend survives. I’ll say, “Why did you scare the hell out of me, you moron? Don’t ever do that to me again or I’ll beat the crap out of you!” Since he’s about three inches taller than me and a hundred pounds heavier, he’d get a big laugh out of that. That’s just the kind of friends we are.

Were?

Somewhere a friend is dying…

Somewhere a friend is hoping for a miracle.