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Recovered Memory From Grade 1

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lavinla



Joined: 14 May 2008
Posts: 10
Recovered Memory From Grade 1

1. The first time I saw a grown man cry I was in first grade. The father of a classmate had come to tell us his son wouldn’t be coming back to school. He had been in a plane crash and the whole family was dead.

He sat in front of the blackboard, facing the class. He must have felt like an alien. Our desks were short, to match our heights. Everything in the class was kept in proportion to our size. Outside the safety of the baby blue class walls, we were the aliens. The outside world was tailored for those that towered above us.

Height meant danger. Only the big kids were allowed to climb past the third bar of the jungle gym. These big kids eventually became adults who climbed the corporate and political ladder. Their decisions affecting the short aliens, both directly and indirectly. They have the privilege of challenging God. Deciding whether the life He created would be permitted to continue, or be snuffed out.

Even sitting in our dwarf chair, one sole giant outnumbered by short aliens, he was menacing. He was doing something that was usually reserved for the short, invisible members of society. What he was doing was scary to us. His silent tears were contagious. Our teacher was sitting at her desk in the corner. She also had silent tears sliding down her cheek.

He spoke like he was trying to explain to himself what had happened. He didn’t use the words that years later I read in newspapers, and heard on the news. My class of aliens didn’t know what a “terrorist” was. We didn’t really understand how far India was. We just knew it was a place, far away. We didn’t know that a plane could fall out of the sky. We just assumed they belonged there. We didn’t know what “dead” was. For us, “forever” usually only lasted a recess, or a lunch hour. We had the capacity to understand that his son wasn’t going to be in our class anymore. But when we had dinner later that night, we wouldn’t be alone, like the giant who was sitting in the dwarf chair would be.

I don’t remember the little boy’s name. I didn’t even remember that day until one night, over 20 years later; I was in a palliative patient’s room, flipping through late night television. A news segment was recapping a highlight of the chronological timeline of the crash, suspects, and trial. The volume was so low on the TV set, that I could hear the soft automated mechanisms of the patient’s running IV pump. I looked out the window, and noticed there weren’t any buildings in my path of sights. The white light of the moon made the falling snowflakes seem magical as they seductively danced on the harsh razor sharp winter wind. It was just me standing on the edge of night, wondering what his last moments must have been like. Was his mother afraid as she tried to keep him and his sister calm? Or did the drop in atmospheric pressure mercifully drain their brains of consciousness? Had his father been capable of having a full nights sleep? Or did he hear them screaming and crying in his dreams?

Even 20 years later, the tears are still contagious.

Post Wed May 14, 2008 5:36 am 
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Shizuru



Joined: 05 Jun 2008
Posts: 27
Location: Lebanon


That is so sad.. and beautiful.
_________________
Never frown even if you are feeling sad cause you never know who is falling in love with your smile.

Post Mon Sep 08, 2008 1:02 am 
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