More from the past

This is a piece that I wrote a while back. I'm not exactly sure when. It has to do with a death, one that was especially close to my family. I don't remember much from the time, I was only 8 or so. But the overall experience definitely left an impact on me.

I haven't been exactly sure what to do with this piece since I wrote it. It got lumped in with everything from "Elephant Skin" but I'm not sure that it really belongs in that collection. Especially since that project had a definite time frame and while it was written in that time frame the actual experience predates it by about ten years.

Either way it's about a cousin of mine, James, who died in a car crash. My family used to go to Portland a lot to spend time with my uncle and his family. Shortly before the accident I spent an entire day with James just dinking around Portland, oils changes, hair cuts, that kind of thing. I've always been glad I was able to have that experience. I also think that it made his death just that more impactful. I'd never known someone who died before.

With how often you read headlines like "Federal Way man charged in wife's strychnine death" or see a new death count coming in from wars overseas sometimes it's easy for me to discredit the pain associated with death. Lately when I start to think that death is just another everyday occurrence I often thing of James and how I felt at that time. It helps to put the value of life back into perspective for me.

For a long time I thought that this piece was unfinished because every time that I would read it it felt immature and confused. I finally decided that it was perfect just the way it is, because those two feelings are exactly how I would have to describe myself at the time. Anywho I'm just rambling now...


A Class; All your own

I was eight-year years old,
But I remember the day you died
Cold front of New Year
An angry mountain with no remorse
Her ice – black as night
Her ice – black as death
She took you
In your Japanese imported coffin
And you were gone

Long drive to Portland
No words in a wasteland of nothing
They kept your casket closed
“Children shouldn’t see such things anyways”
Your covered face – revealing horrors
Your covered face – growing stronger
They took you
In your Japanese imported coffin
And you were gone