"Norton is playing in the snow"

The class rabbit was absent Friday, playing hookie. Norton stayed at the lead teacher's house to drink hot cocoa with mini-marshmallows. He probably watched "Oprah" and a few soaps when he wasn't outside rolling snowballs and making angel bunnies.

We needed a sign on the rabbit's cage to let the children know that Norton would be absent for the day. Norton has an excellent attendance record. He is never tardy. This was going to be a strange day. The first student to arrive drew an imaginative picture of a rabbit in the snow to tape on the cage.

What a weird week! Two separate snowstorms in North Texas in one week is about as likely as hell freezing over. I'm sure this was a commentary on our primary election options. I wouldn't vote for ____ even if hell froze over.... Fill in the blank/multiple choice! E. None of the above.

A worried parent asked in hushed tones if our rabbit had gone to the big cosmic none of the above. "Is Norton playing in the snow at the end of the white light tunnel?" Absolutely not. The rabbit is just taking a mental health day.

A dear friend studies the local obituaries as a comparative literature exercise. I glance over those obits a couple times a week, as I am not a serious scholar of the genre. Still, I'm impressed with the twists of words our culture uses to euphemize death.

So if you happen to read on that local news back page about someone who has "gone out to play with the rabbit in the snow", just thank me that this obit wasn't "after a long courageous battle".

I'm hoping my sons will remember to write that I "slid on down that long, long Eternal Hill on my Celestial Flexible Flyer". And I sure hope I meet Norton inside the Pearly Gates with mugs of melty marshmallows.

Death of a student

Children die. All over the world. Every single day. From malnutrition, disease, birth complications and genetic disorders. By suicide. From land mines half-way around the globe, and from random bullet sprays in gang violence a few miles from my home. From swim pool accidents in gated communities, and horrifying abuse by mother's live-in boyfriends. They are left in locked cars in the Texas summer, or thrown from cars because they weren't properly fastened into a car safety seat. Children without life jackets at the lake, or active supervision on the playground. Some are attacked by the neighbor's Rottweiler, and some by the neighbor. They find loaded guns at home. They are victims of unspeakable crimes by parents who swear God told them to do it. Not the concern of the current administration, but impacting families every single hour of every single day.

It shouldn't happen. Not here. It shouldn't happen anywhere, but it always will. It shouldn't happen now, but our species is not as civilized as we fancy ourselves. In our fantasy mental version of modern medicine, children don't die. But they do. It's the pits. Life has no pause button and no rewind, and there's no guarantee that it will make sense.

When a child dies, it is "time out of whack" for the parents, my coworker explains. This week has given me cause to consider the death of a sweet, sweet child, of a student, and also to wonder about the siblings of the deceased. That concern for the young brothers has been lurking just off stage in my brain all week. What could I possibly say to the boys after the sudden death of their sister?

It was so difficult reading cards and writing letters when Fritzi died. Conversations were even harder. It didn't make sense. It shouldn't have happened. It hurt, and it still hurts. What helped me? I didn't "get on with life", or "get over it". Mourning is not like that. One doesn't just "get back to normal life."

The thing is, "normal" has changed. There's no rewind or pause. I work to accept the changes in the frustrated person holding the remote control and clicking without results. I am not in control, but I'm less remote.

Writing posts for this blog has helped me find a calm, safe spot. No answers or explanations. Just little hints at finding acceptance for myself, and some courage to explore changing relationships. Tiny glimpses of my life's purpose.

Writing has also been a way to Photoshop the mental images of my mother to find enhanced meaning and resolution. Some images needed to be blurred or to have the shadows softened. Other images needed the colors and definition adjusted. Sometimes the midtones had overpowered the highlights. The saturation levels required fine-tuning. Writing. Writing....

Woke up in the middle of the night knowing what I could tell the young brothers. I could tell them how I wrote stories about Fritzi. I hope I've written the letter in vocabulary the young brothers can understand. I hope they will consider my suggestion that they write stories, or make drawings. Writing has helped me more than I can describe. May these young brothers find a creative way to send their feelings, energy, sadness, creativity, and memory outward in a way that helps their larger family.