Holes, and Waking Up Ready

When people you care about die, they seem to leave holes in you somehow. The holes don't really ever go away, either, I've found. You just become more and more like swiss cheese as the years go by and the griefs pile up.

By the same token, when incredible things happen, it's like being adorned with some extraordinary power-granting gem (okay, yes, I made a Green Lantern reference), or breathing the freshest air or drinking the purest juice imaginable, or waking up invigorated and ready. That last one is something that I think has happened to me maybe six times in my life, so to me it feels like a pretty incredible event. Not a morning person over here.

One of my favorite students abruptly left this world a little over a week ago. Today was his memorial service. My administrators graciously let students and teachers attend, even though it was in the middle of the day. That's the right thing to do, and that seems to be what motivates them, in my opinion. Hence, I tend to like working for them. I've been around for students dying in the five or so years I've been working in public schools. This was the first time I knew the student so well... well, the first time since a classmate died in high school.

There's ready-made cliches for these occasions, and the fact that they're cliches makes them feel a bit wrong, even though they are actually wholly accurate. They are too young to die at this age. It isn't supposed to be like this. No parents should have to go through that.

Maybe part of why it hit me so hard is because Alexis and I are expecting a child at the end of August. We've already been through a miscarriage, so the whole event, while exciting and beautiful beyond measure, is also fraught with fear and a quiet sort of terror. I'm a little nervous about trying to be a good dad, but mainly I am just afraid of the random darkness of this fallen world sneaking up and snatching them away before this child really gets a chance to live it out.

It may be that, partly, but probably it's more to do with the fact that I knew this kid. I knew the intelligence that hid behind a quiet facade. I knew the soft heart that hid behind hard armor. I knew much more than a name and some grades and some anecdotal evidence. I cared. Once you're caring, you're already, on some level in this life, digging into yourself and building a nice comfortable hole in yourself, somewhere for them to live cozily. Then, when they're gone, you're left with that hole.

What a capricious, malevolent, cold world. What a wonderland of delights, too. When weighing the two extremes together, the highs and the lows of life, it's hard for me to regard it with anything but a strange blend of both wonder and terror.

Today I tried to mourn one of my favorite students. Tomorrow I find out if we're having a boy or a girl. And that, my friends, is death and life, sitting together in about as overwhelming a yin and yang as I've encountered.

I like art and literature because they strive to explain these great mysteries of life, and they usually do so (when they're doing it well) in non-dogmatic ways, ways that retain room for the mystery itself to still captivate and flourish.

I keep hearing a song a friend of mine wrote when I think about this new hole I'll be carrying around. "Death / He looked me straight in the eye / He said you're never too young to die / His words / They rang true in my heart / And that was the worst part / Oh, Death..."