Everyone Moves On

The Death of a Soldier

by Wallace Stevens

Life contracts and death is expected,

As in a season of autumn.

The soldier falls.

He does not become a three-days’ personage,

Imposing his separation,

Calling for pomp.

Death is absolute and without memorial,

As in a season of autumn,

When the wind stops.

When the wind stops and, over the heavens,

The clouds go, nevertheless,

In their direction.

                

I wake up to sounds. Mr. Baird starts his car, goes back into the house while it purrs in the driveway. Several minutes later he comes out, gets in the car and drives down the street. I can hear him stop at the stop sign and then drive on.

A line of geese flies over the house, whispering to each other. They are close enough to the ground that I can hear and practically feel their powerful wings beating at the air. It makes such a surprisingly loud sound.

Jasper barks as the garbage truck turns on to our block. It growls, stalking up our street in search of the next meal. When the men yell instructions at each other I can imagine their yelling as screams as they are being eaten by this massive screeching beast.

My mom is watching the news. The muffled drone of informative men and women tell her what has happened since late last night when she turned the TV off.

Mornings are the worst. Sometimes my dad and my sister are in my dreams but mostly I dream of a life where the crush of death is not constantly pressing on my chest. When I wake up there is a split second where nothing is wrong. Nothing happened and my life is not special. I am a 7-year old boy, like any 7-year old boy in the world.

And then I remember. And it is like I am learning that they died all over again, for the first time.

People ignore me because they don’t know what to say or they pretend like nothing happened because they don’t know what to say. No one has died in this world. We are 7. Death is something cats and gerbils and beetles do. Death happens on the side of the road to raccoons and deer and opossums.

I feel them looking at me. I see them look away quickly when I turn my head. Like what I have is contagious and they’ll catch it if I see them. I am ok with that. It is not like I want to talk to anyone about it. Sometimes I worry that if I open my mouth my insides will come pouring out like glowing lava.

We pretend. We pretend nothing happened. And maybe if we pretend enough it won’t have happened.

Standing on the shore, the river roars by unphased by the crime it is currently engaged in. I am looking into the foamy rushing water that has swallowed them. Maybe if I don’t blink this will not be happening.

People ask, “Was she wearing a life jacket?”  As though the answer will somehow change the outcome.

I was a 7-year old boy. I loved Start Wars. I had seen it 14 times. When Annie Hall won the Oscar instead of Star Wars I remember turning and looking at my dad in shock. How could this have happened?

I argued with my dad about whether I was old enough to watch Kojak and Barreta and Saturday Night Live. We fought about what time I had to go to bed, playing with my sister, whether I should eat tofu and how I spoke to my mom when she reminded me to take out the trash.

I wanted to be a Jedi Knight and learn to fly. I wanted to join the army or be a super hero. I couldn’t wait to drive so I could drive all over the world.

And then all of a sudden a world full of action figures and popsicles and dodge ball and scabs and sprained ankles and chores and rock collections and Christmases and bad guys and red cars and Saturday morning cartoons and chocolate milk is now a world that is full of the absence of you.

***

I am in the back seat of our brand new beige Volkswagon Rabbit. It is our first new car and it cost $5,400. We are in the parking lot of a super market meeting up with other friends to go out to the woods—coordinating, buying food, starting a caravan.

We are all in small summer clothes and everyone is chirping. My mom’s friend leans into the car and in a low tone, asks my mom if she heard about Jesse’s sister and father. Apparently they had drown while inner-tubing.

“Oh no, really? How?”

“I guess she went under and he dove in after her. Neither one made it.”

“Was she wearing a life jacket?”

Jesse’s dad and sister died. How is that possible? I just saw his sister a couple of days ago. She was alive.

A couple of weeks later, I am standing with my parents at a street fair down town. There are booths with games and food and face painting. Always face painting. It just isn’t a party without face painting. I don’t get my face painted. My mom painted my face when I was three and it stung so bad I am ok with never trying it again. But I sure would love some candy.

There is a horse and carriage across the street waiting to give someone a ride. My parents are talking to their friends and I am surveying the crowd, paying particular attention to ice cream sightings and the horse. I love horses. It is warm and everyone is having a good time.

Jesse appears gliding up the street with his hands in his pockets. He is alone. He is not smiling. Just walking, with purpose. I wonder where he is going. Is he thinking about his dad and his sister right now? Is he reliving that day in his head? What does death feel like?

He strides by like a ghost in the middle of a circus. No one sees him. Everyone is too busy having fun. I wonder how we could all be having so much fun in the midst of him. I wonder what he must think of all of this. I imagine I would want to scream at us. “Do you have any idea what has happened?”

I have this fantasy that I would run up to him and tell him that I am not having fun. That I am so sad for him right now. But I don’t do that because I am afraid that, at this moment, he has forgotten his sister and his father and that he is enjoying his first peaceful moment in weeks. That the horse and the games and music are all transporting him out of the darkness for a few wonderful moments. And then would I run up and remind him and ruin it all.

So I stand at the foot of my mom and watch him disappear on his way to where he is going.