Heart of Gold

Every six months or so, I submit to an inexplicable craving and eat at McDonald’s. This is my story.

The first sniff of the air inside a McDonald’s makes my taste buds horny. They wet themselves in anticipation while I stand in line waiting with feigned patience and love for my fellow man. Time slows to a belly crawl as the permanently baffled octogenarians in front of me order Whoppers for which they hope to pay with Burger King coupons. At last I approach the counter. I already know which meal I want, but I look past the cashier and up at the menu board anyway, scanning it with narrowed eyes and furrowed brow, as if it were written in an ancient language that I have never seen before but must de-code before being fed.

The ordering process is always the same; I include everything the pimple-faced cashier-in-training needs to know (meal number, size, to stay or go), and they proceed to ask me every question that I have already answered. Once they figure out enter my order into the new age push-button register, I hand over my money (always in cash so as to avoid a paper trail), ignoring the thought that a parking lot drug transaction would probably feel less shameful. It would certainly be faster and less complicated.

Moments later I carry my tray of “food” over to the soda and condiment station, taking a perverse pleasure in resisting the urge to claw a couple of fries into my half-open mouth.  At the aptly named soda fountain, I am torn between one particular beverage and everything else on offer. Diet-Coke and I share a sordid history. I love her like a hooker with a heart of gold that I might have in the past paid to do nothing more than hold me close and listen as I listed my fears, grief, hopes, joys, and regrets. The relationship wasn’t all that good for me, but she listened in the moment, and she was cheaper than a therapist.

After a moment of guilt-ridden memories, I sigh softly before filling my cup with more orange soda than any one person should consume in a week. I fumble with the wrong size lids before finding the right, then stab a straw through the hole, and push in all the little buttons that indicate cola, diet, root beer, or other. I then pump a half-quart of ketchup into a platoon of little white paper cups, grab a handful of pepper packets, and stock up for the impending global napkin shortage.

After choosing a table an acceptable distance away from the doors, trash bins, bathrooms, and homeless people, a table that is relatively free of soda spills, food crumbs, and unidentifiable stains, I am ready to consume.

Well, not quite yet. I have to break open the pile of pepper packets and sprinkle them one by one over my ketchup garden.

Now I am ready to consume.

A handful of french fries to start. If they are hot, the guilt burns away like flash paper. Cold, and a tickle of regret creeps up my spine, bowing my shoulders as if I want to hide. If the carton is full of soggy bits and the nasty burnt dregs, I take them back to the counter and ask for fresh fries. I paid for tasty poison, and that is what I want.

 I pull back the lid to the Double Quarter Pounder with Cheese. I still remember the first time I ate a Quarter Pounder. I was 15, working part-time at the westbound McDonald’s on I-95 in Madison, Connecticut. One night while going on break, I ordered two Cheeseburgers, a small fry, and a chocolate shake from the same beautiful cashier that earlier in the month had followed me into the walk-in freezer and showed me her freshly sun-tanned breasts.

My focus at work had blurred since that paradoxical moment of hot and cold. It had taken me three weeks to muster the function of speech in her presence, and after placing my order that night, she just stood at the register with her lips pressed together in apparent disapproval.  I waited beside her, wishing she didn’t smell of coconut oil and sunshine.  

“You should just order a Quarter-Pounder with Cheese, it’s just a bigger Cheeseburger,” she said at last.

The information was unsolicited, much like her display in the freezer had been.

“What’s on it?” I managed to ask, my voice just a measure above a squeak.

“The same stuff, only the onions are bigger,” she answered, with emphasis on the word bigger.

I stood staring at her with open-hanging mouth for the second time that month.

“Just try it; I promise you’ll love it,” she said, and with that she entered my order into the register.

Her unsolicited advice had not gone unappreciated. I ate that Quarter Pounder with Cheese (in spite of those pesky sesame seeds) and never looked back. At some point I had somehow graduated to the Double QP, and I like to think it was by accident, because no one should ever knowingly choose to ramp up their consumption of something so hazardous to the heart.

My DQPwC never looks quite like the one in the print ads or commercials, which portray a happy, handsome, healthy guy eating McDonald’s food without actually taking a bite (or falling into a shame spiral). No, my DQPwC always looks more like something a three-fingered, career-depressed, mother’s basement-dweller in his late thirties threw together while blindfolded. Still, I have hope that each new one will taste good all the way through to the final bite in spite of its initial appearance. I discard the bigger chunks of onion and a pickle or two, then assemble the pile into something that looks like it will fit between my teeth. After wiping the grease, mustard, and ketchup from my hands, I pick up the DQPwC and take a bite.

It is probably written in fine print (or perhaps invisible ink) somewhere on the menu board that only the first bite of a McDonald’s burger is guaranteed to be free of self-loathing. Believing this, I always make the first bite a big one, full of that famous flavor known to billions every day. I follow this up with some fries dipped in peppered ketchup, a sip of orange soda, and the thought that I should quit while I’m ahead.

But I don’t.

Bite, savor, swallow, repeat…

Halfway through the meal, that scent, the one that caused a flood of saliva not ten minutes earlier, becomes an odor. It is important to note that a scent is something you notice casually, and if it’s good you seek out its source, while an odor is something unavoidable that ten-year-old boys make without trying, and then dare each other to experience up close over and over amid fits of laughter as you run the other way. The odor of a McDonald’s meal is a mix of grease, rot, and gluttony; it sticks to your skin like a scarlet letter, and no amount of soap or hand sanitizer can wash it away.

Bite, odor, guilt, repeat…

The odor gives me pause, but I soldier through; I’ve got a small beach bucket of fries to finish off, and I can’t let that last quarter-of-a-quarter-of-a-pound of meatish material go to waste. I punch through the disgust barrier and manage to feed the remaining bites into my mouth under the protest of my offended nostrils. The last few fries are never the biggest, and are in fact the smallest, coldest, and least desirable. I snatch them up like a baby eating Cheerios for the first time, eager to finally control his own food intake.

A quick disposal of the evidence in the nearest trash bin, and I burst through the doors and out into the daylight like an indicted mob boss leaving a courthouse to face an army of flashbulbs and microphones. I head for my car and try not to squeal the tires as I leave the parking lot.

And then the remorse absolute sets in.

A meal at McDonald’s is always followed by the same bloated regret that a pregnant teenager in her third trimester must feel when riding the school bus. I want to run home and take an Ace Ventura shower of shame, curled up into a ball of doughy flesh, the hot water blending with my tears as I mourn the loss of my innocence. I chew mint gum to fight the rotting of my breath, and a bottle of Tums becomes my constant companion for the next several hours as I try in vain to pop the bubble of fetid gas rising within me and putting pressure on my ribs. Eventually the bubble stops rising and starts to descend. This is not a good thing, however, because the gas seeks the path of least resistance. I banish myself from public places, and pray that my family will forgive the invisible cloud of greenhouse gases that surrounds me. There is no relief but time, so I settle into my regret and wait for the slow process of digestion and expulsion to take place.

At some point within eight hours after eating at McDonald’s I can be found on the treadmill, punishing myself for my indulgence. I imagine the great drops of sweat that seep from my pores and soak my shirt to be not a byproduct of my exercise, but rather a direct result of my poor choice of lunch, a siphoning of poisonous fat from my body. I watch the calorie counter climb, and the moment it hits 800, I feel an immediate easing of guilt. I slow to a walk and mentally pat myself on the back for my new found self-control and determination, until a voice inside reminds me that had I not eaten at McDonald’s but burned that 800 calories anyway, I would be ahead for the day.

I have never checked the chart, but a DQPwC meal has to measure at least 1,000 calories, and more than that, it is made of artery-clogging junk that my body is better off without.

And so I vow to never again pass beneath the golden arches of remorse; bad gas may eventually burn through an engine, but I wouldn't I knowingly put it in my car.

Unless I’m on a road trip; McDonald’s is delicious on a road trip!

Living Green

The North Shore of Oahu is a dangerous place. The tropical greens, clear water, and loose-hanging vibe invite recklessness, and arouse the belief that retirement from the mainland U.S. to a life tending bar by night and surfing waves by day is not only possible, but a good decision. Romantic nights cap adventurous days, and as passion rises with the moon, the taste of fresh fruit is replaced by that of sweet lips.

I was going to die in Paradise.

The pain tightened across my stomach around one o'clock in the morning, not long after Elizabeth had fallen into a deep sleep beside me. Thinking it was a nothing more than a stomach too full of good food, I chewed a couple of Tums and hoped for a long fart to ease the pressure. After turning off the television, I laid down and focused on the sound of the ocean pounding against the rocky shore of Turtle Bay.

Almost an hour later the pressure remained, and I sensed that my stomach was about to demand a welcome purge. I went to the bathroom, closed the door, and spewed forth demons as quietly as possible, not wanting to disturb Elizabeth's peaceful sleep between the crisp white sheets. My throat burned, my eyes watered, and my mind panicked, because my stomach continued to tighten in spite of being drained.

Believing, hoping, praying really, that my empty gut just needed a few minutes to settle into all's well, I brushed my teeth and rinsed my mouth several times before returning to bed for much needed sleep. The Universe, however, had other plans. Within minutes my body began to play a game of tag between fever and chills. Great drops of sweat swam to the surface of my skin and cooled as they made contact with the night air. I shuddered like an addict on day three of rehab, wrapped in damp blankets and swaddled in self pity.

Pity gave way to worry when the chest pains hit. If my rib cage had been an engine, I would have supposed that it was running without the lubricating effects of oil, every one of its moving parts seizing and grinding with each labored breath that I took. I struggled to a sitting position and gulped at the air around me in panic and desperation. Rather than subside, the pains turned into hot, sharp jabs. The pressure within my chest rose with the dreadful thought that scrolled in flashing red across the movie screen within my mind.

You are going to die from a heart attack in Paradise.

Choking back the bile of fear that had started to climb my throat, I shook my left arm and waited for the chest pains to travel down it. The pain stayed were it was, clamped tightly across my chest.

A new message scrolled past in flashing red: Okay, you are not going to die from a heart attack in Paradise. You are going to die from a stroke.

I sniffed the air for burning toast, doubting that strokes included severe chest pains.

Okay, not a stroke, but there is no way you are going to outlive this pain.

I slid from the bed to the floor with a whimper, and wished for a quick and merciful end to a life that I hadn't yet lived. I stared up into the darkness, knowing that my kids were too young to lose their father, and my wife too beautiful to be left single. How long before I became a sweet but distant memory, worthy of nothing more than a few minutes reflection each year on what had been my birthday?

You have some serious issues to resolve before your die; you'd better find a way out of this.

Not quite ready to chase the light, and wondering why I bothered to punctuate internal warning messages, I considered making a deal with my maker. My life was an unfinished canvas, and I refused to stop slapping paint on it until it had become a masterpiece. Well, maybe not a masterpiece...

Father...

My supplication (sent without conditions or deals) complete, I struggled to my feet and limped to the sliding shutter-doors that led to the balcony. After steadying myself against them for a long moment, I turned and made my way across the room to the front door. I repeated this march of suffering a few times, hoping my efforts would not go unnoticed by he who helps those that help themselves. While my situation didn't improve, it didn't seem to worsen, and so I was hopeful until a sudden, more pronounced pain sent me to my knees. The fever tightened its grip, chasing the chills away for good, and I felt the darkness around me begin to spiral. In the silence of what I thought would be my final moment, I heard several drops of sweat fall from my face onto the carpet.

I thought once more of Elizabeth and our kids, and hurled a prayer into the night before rolling onto my back to die. The pain of losing them washed over me, adding to that of my seizing chest. I heard Elizabeth breathing softly in the distance, and was powerless to stop the tears that came at the thought of her waking to find me dead on the floor. 

Happy memories replaced the flashing red warnings, and I embraced each one of them as they came and left in a rush. Despair wrapped in acceptance came over me, and I marveled at the sensation. 

Water.

Thirst pushed its way through the thick mesh of emotion, and since I didn't appear to be dead, I climbed back onto all fours and crawled over to the bedside table. The pain in my chest had become a constant series of spiny waves rolling upwards through my chest, over my shoulders, and into my back.

On our way to Turtle Bay, we had pit-stopped at the Dole pineapple plantation. We decided against taking the tour, but did browse the gift shop, where in a moment of impulse much out of character, we bought two large drink tumblers with the Dole brand logo on the side. For the past three nights I had filled it with ice water and left it on the bedside table for easy access in the middle of the night.

I held the green tumbler in trembling hands and sucked at the straw. Cold water washed over my tongue and filled my mouth. It hit my cheeks, and I thought I heard the sizzling sound of fire meeting its mortal enemy. The image encouraged me and I swallowed, bringing more water up through the straw in a steady flow that continued until the tumbler was empty. I placed it back on the bedside table and laid down beside Elizabeth to die.

As my head hit the pillow, the pain disappeared without so much as a fading. I stared up at the ceiling and waited for its inevitable return. Seconds, then minutes passed, and the pain stayed away, as if chased from the room and down the hall by something I could not see or understand. I imagined it jabbing at the elevator button in panic, then screaming without a voice as whatever it was that had saved my life charged into it. Together they fell into the open elevator. Before it reached the lobby my champion had devoured my enemy and then disappeared like mist through a vent.

The pain was gone.

I turned onto my side and watched Elizabeth sleep. She was just as still and peaceful as she had been a couple of hours earlier when my battle with the threat of death had begun, but she had somehow become more beautiful. I fell into the smiling sleep of the exhausted, and if I had dreams I cannot recall them.

The rest of our trip was wonderful. I soon felt tempted into recklessness again, but the recklessness was less dangerous than it was insightful. I didn't dare suggest to myself that I had been given a second chance at life, but more a pile of reasons to keep on living the life that I had already started.

And so, back home in Oakley, I am trying to do just that. I don't think I will die any time soon, but every night I fill that green Dole tumbler with ice water and put it beside my bed.

Just in case.

Burning, Man

The chainsaw bayonet roared as I cut through the heavy double doors. Splintered chunks of wood fell to the floor, leaving me exposed to the enemy. A hailstorm of bullets puckered the woodwork around me.

"Can I interest you in a replacement door?" I shouted over the sound of my return fire.

“Throwing frag!” Caleb yelled, then threw a grenade into the room.

I tucked and rolled backwards to escape the blast. I could hear the panicked scrambling of our humanoid enemies as they tried to avoid being blown back to hell.

The explosion slammed against my chest armor, sending me onto my back. After a few moments the shock subsided, and I began to take stock of my limbs. My most important bits accounted for, I suddenly noticed that my shoulder was shaking.

I rolled to one side, and heard Elizabeth’s voice in the form of a hissing whisper.

 “Matty, I think someone just pounded on the front window!”

The battle for humanity came to an abrupt halt as I passed from dreams to reality. I wasn't a cog in the gears of war after all, but rather a middle-aged husband and father dreaming my way through the night.

Oh well.

Wait, someone pounding on the front window? An intruder? A home invader? The dreams of war returned. Awake and alert, I jumped from the bed and stood beside it, listening for sounds of infiltration.

Silence…

I looked through the dark towards my grandfather's shotgun, and my mind traveled back to a dark night and an even darker house that I had cleared room-by-room for a frightened neighbor who had come home to an open front door. Turning tight corners quickly and getting the jump on any potential intruders had proved to be a difficult task with the long barrel.

I really need to get a pistol.

A minute later, fully dressed but without my unwieldy shotgun, I made my way quietly to the front door. Peering out through the smoky glass, I could tell that something wasn't right; a dark and solid looking mass stood just outside the door, and beyond it moved a large blur of white. I turned the lock, grabbed the doorknob, and yanked the door open, ready to fight…

A big grey garbage can. It stood on our front porch, right up against the doorstep. Harmless. I looked beyond it at the moving blur of white.

A butt-load of toilet paper hung down from every tree in our yard.

Elizabeth spent a moment laughing at the scene before returning to bed. I however, knew that sleep was not an option. I grabbed a BB gun, donned my coat, and stepped outside to watch and wait behind a bush for the culprits to return. After several minutes of patience and no sign of the enemy, I decided to start the cleanup.

The first order of business was to gather the collection of garbage cans that our late night guests had placed around the yard. They must have stolen them from other houses, because ours was still in place at the side of the garage. I lined them up at the side of the road, making them easy to spot by their owners should they come looking for them in the morning.

The easy work completed, I looked up into the trees and chuckled. Our front yard boasted more white than a Klan rally. As much as I wanted to shoot the perpetrators in the butt with that BB gun, I had to smile at their handiwork and the memories of my own prankster days that it evoked.

The sunny day had melted most of the snow, and the exposed grass crunched beneath my feet as I gathered the easy to reach toilet paper from bushes and lower branches. I imagined myself to be a farmer harvesting a bright white crop that only grows by starlight. After gathering the lower hanging fruit into a pile on the lawn, I stopped and surveyed the long strands of white still hanging from the uppermost branches of every tree in my front yard, wondering how I was going to get them down. I had already tried pulling gently on a few of them, but each time the paper had snagged in the tangle of branches above.

Frustrated but not defeated, I stared up into the night sky and brainstormed. It didn't take long before thoughts of ladders, long sticks, and tree climbing gave way to sudden inspiration.

I snuck inside the house and made my way to our bedroom. Elizabeth hardly stirred as I tugged at the drawer of my nightstand, the drawer that always sticks. I managed to open it just enough to reach a hand inside and feel through the darkness until my fingers closed around my beloved Zippo. The chrome felt smooth, cold and welcome against my skin.

I had bought the lighter on a whim a few years ago, simply because I had always wanted one. Flicking it open and shut had become a nervous habit, born out of grief and a need to keep my anxious hands busy. The high-pitched metallic ”ping” of the lid flicking open had served to break up the lonely and heavy silences that often descended upon me in those days.  I carried it around with me for months, until my restlessness had calmed to the point that I no longer felt it necessary to keep in my back pocket.

Back in the front yard, I stood beneath the tallest tree, flicked open the Zippo with a satisfying ping, and lit it up. The familiar smell of butane filled my nose, and the warmth of fire crawled comfortably across my hand. I grabbed the nearest strand of toilet paper and paused, as if about to cut a ceremonial ribbon.

“I hope this works,” I said aloud with a laugh.

It did.

Soon the tree was burning without being consumed. Fire climbed each of the paper strands, turning them into smoke as it crawled along their white paths, snaked around branches, and wandered higher up into the tree to light the dark night. I dashed around the yard, setting every papered tree alight. The lawn danced with shadows, and little plots of snow glimmered with orange light as the flames ascended.

The absurdity of the moment took hold of me, and suddenly I was laughing out loud and leaping about beneath the flaming trees, staring up at the flames like a little child captivated by a fireworks display. I felt tribal, and had it been any warmer I might have stripped down to nothing and painted my body with mud. I wanted to run from house to house, wake the neighbors, and with joyful shouts invite them to take a happy part in my late night festival of fire.

Soon the paper had all burned away. The fun was over. My once bright and cheerful yard became a dark and lonely place. I turned to go inside, and noticed the pile of toilet paper that I had harvested earlier. A thought occurred, followed by a smile...

Ping!

Principles

I don't remember what my son did that made me lash out at him with such spite and volume, but I will never forget the moment that he flinched as though I were about to hit him. I wasn't, but you couldn't have convinced him otherwise, and so he cowered below me with fear in his eyes. The sight shocked me into silence and sent me bolting from the room.

A few minutes later I stood behind a locked bathroom door, my heart racing and my chest heaving. A panic spread within me like a dark wet stain on white linen. I looked through wild eyes at my reflection in the mirror, and for the first time saw what I had become; a man covered in a crust of bitterness, self-righteousness and pride. It was so thick and ugly upon me that my own son feared my approach.

The monster in the mirror frightened me too.

That was some time ago; let's skip ahead to present day. Last week, an authority figure wrongfully and without any investigation other than an ASSumption accused my daughter and a few of her fellow students of having stolen a computer. After yanking them from a prior obligation, he informed them that they would not be going anywhere until the issue was resolved. The kids protested their innocence, but he did not believe them. He did eventually grant them permission to embark on their own investigation, and with little effort they discovered that another adult in authority had in fact taken the computer. Having proved their innocence, they were allowed to return to their prior obligation, but were penalized for having missed the major part of it.

I could be incensed over the fact that this man doubted my daughter's integrity. I could be enraged at his complete lack of respect for her, and his display of incompetence when it came to the thoughtful, intelligent, and level-headed wielding of authority. I could brandish my pitchfork, light my torch, and march down to his office to demand his resignation.

But I'm not (okay, I'm trying not to be), and I won't (really, I won't). The benefit of doubt, the fact that I was not there, and my own experience, both as a teenager and working with teenagers, afford him the presumption of innocence that he did not offer my daughter. Mistakes are sometimes made.

That being said...

No apology was offered up to the kids by their accuser after the fact, and no restitution was made in regards to the prior engagement that they missed. That angers, confuses, and concerns me. My daughter spent the better part of that day learning things that we as a nation deem to be critical to our children's future (topic for another day), but the most important lesson she could have learned that day wasn't part of the curriculum, in spite of the oppurtunity.

As a child I was taught to say that I was sorry whenever I wronged someone. For years I listened to teachers, parents, and adults in general, as they admonished me to apologize for my bad or insensitive actions. Along the way, however, I marveled at how few of them actually practiced what they preached. Their (in)actions demonstrated a "do as I say, not as I do" approach to adult life. I decided that I couldn't wait to reach the age at which I could counsel others on what was good for them, while at the same time ignoring my own advice and doing as I pleased.

Such an age never came, not in any official-stamp sort of way, but at some point, probably in my teenage years, I just stopped apologizing. I grew up, fell in love, got married, made mistakes and refused to apologize. I had kids, loved and nurtured them, made mistakes, and refused to apologize.

Back through time, to the monster in the mirror. Ten years into fatherhood, I remained apology-free and overflowing with self-righteous pride, a tyrant in the eyes of my children. I wanted, I needed to change, but did I know how to become something else, something better, something that my kids wouldn't fear? Even if I figured it out, would it be worth what was sure to be a mighty amount of effort? Wasn't the damage done? Wouldn't my kids look back at this version of their father no matter what I did or said over the next  fifty years? My bile-laden gut told me to stand my ground; I was the patriarch of the family, and my word was infallible law.

Fortunately, my heart told me otherwise, and for good measure it dredged up the image of my son's young frame cowering in my shadow.

I knew what I had to do.

I'll never forget the look on my son's face as I sat on the end of his bed and asked his forgiveness.

"I am sorry," I said, and meant.

He looked up at me, a look of confused relief on his face as he watched me struggle to shed the heavy crust that had constrained me for as long as he could remember. I made no excuses for my behavior, laid none of the blame at his feet, and demanded no concessions of him as I finished my apology.

A but free apology.

To say that it felt good doesn't cut it.

I'd like to think that the moment meant as much to my son as it did to me, but if it didn't, and if he doesn't even remember it, that's okay. He wasn't the one that needed to learn a lesson that day.

In spite of that lesson learned, I have yet to become a perfect father. I still make mistakes, and even let slip the dogs of my temper now and again. But my kids have kind hearts that allow room for my imperfections, so long as I keep trying. And I do.

One more jump through time, to the moment that my daughter and her classmates proved their innocence. In that moment, she could have been taught that even adults make mistakes, some of them really dumb, some of them really stupid, and all of them forgivable. She could have learned that humility makes weak men strong, felt the power of a sincere apology, and known the blessings that come from forgiving others.

But her accuser didn't apologize, and so instead she learned that pride makes strong men weak, and respect eludes some men for good reason.

I'm sorry, Hannah.

West of Independence Soundtrack Part 5

To Recap:

1. Willy Porter "Unconditional"

2. David Bowie "Heroes"

3. Journey "Don't Stop Believin'"

4. Matt Hires "State Lines"

5. Toad the Wet Sprocket "Windmills"

6. The Damnwells "Texas"

7. Ian Axel "Gone"

8. Greg Holden "The Lost Boy"

9. Rick Springfield "Tear It All Down"

10. Greg Laswell "Sweet Dream"

11. HYUNA "Bubble Pop"

12. Pink "U and UR Hand"

13. Mat Kearney "Fire and Rain"

14. Ben Folds "Still Fighting It"

15. Snow Patrol "You Could Be Happy"

16. Greg Laswell "High and Low"

I have heard it said many times that suicide is a selfish act. In Jared's case, I believe the more selfish act was mine, in that I abandoned him in his hours of need. Looking "high and low" for Jared, knowing that he was most likely already dead, was a painful and anxious experience, but nothing could prepare me for finding him. I am left now to wish that I had looked as intently into my brother's living eyes as I did for his body after his death.

From West of Independence page 296

I peeled open a dozen scraps of paper, one after another. Most of them were random thoughts and reminders Jared had scribbled to himself. I read each of them to myself, scanning them for some hint of a note, address, or anything else that might serve as a clue. Nothing stood out or made sense of Jared’s disappearance. Not until I opened the last piece of paper in the pile.

The date and time stamp on the drug store receipt were for Wednesday afternoon, the day before our search had begun. My eyes blurred as I read aloud the items purchased.

Sarah sat on Jared’s bed and cried.

17. Sigur Rós "Hoppípolla"

There are so many things that I want to experience in the afterlife, like flying unassisted over beautiful landscapes, soaring into the sky, and speeding across space to watch the birth of planets and the death of stars. I want to do all of it with Jared, and were I to arrive at the other side of death to find the afterlife to be nothing more than a myth, I would tear holes in space just to make it happen. I would create a God, define his plan, and reach back into the fabric of time to bring it all to pass.

But thank God I won't have to; I can tell you now that it is not a myth. In the afterlife we will be young and old, innocent and wise, content and restless.

And Jared will teach me to fly.

From West of Independence page 303

I held Jared tight.

“I’m so sorry that I abandoned you. I thought my life was so bad, and that I had so much to deal with that I couldn’t help you. I’m sorry that you hurt so bad for so long, and that I didn’t do enough for you. I should have spent more time being your brother and loving you, but I didn’t. I spent too many years telling you what was wrong with your life, I wish now that I had just loved you. All you wanted was love, and it took me too long to give you mine. I was selfish, hypocritical, and wrong. Jared, I miss you so much, and I will until the day I see you again...” I paused, my breath outpaced by my emotions.

Connor reached out and grabbed my hand. I felt a surge of warm strength course through me.

“And I know that I will see you. This is not the end; we will be together again, and we will laugh, and you will be happy, and you will never be sad again. I know this,” I said firmly.

I looked up at the sky and continued. “God, you’d better be listening. Please take care of my little brother Jared. He is sad, and he is lonely, and he needs love. We failed to give him enough of it here, so you need to do right by him. He is so beautiful, but he is broken. Please take care of him,” I begged heaven.

Connor and I stood holding hands.

It was a comfortable silence.

 
18. Mat Kearney "All I Need"

I've made no secret about the fact that I fell apart after Jared's death. Most of what I thought I believed crumbled away into the muddy river of grief that boiled around me. One night, Elizabeth (Ella) told me about a woman she knew whose husband had suffered a crisis of his own, and had done his absolute best to push her away from him forever. Rather than accepting that their marriage was over and leave him, she looked him in the eyes and told him that she had married him out of love, and that she had signed up for the bad times as well as the good. She would wait for him to work it out, and while he did, she would keep their family moving in the right direction, because she had faith that he would find his way back to them one day.

He did.

I was blessed to have had Elizabeth standing at my side on that terrible day in the woods, and I was blessed to have her patience and love as I found my way back afterwards.

From West of Independence page page 308

There is a tightness in my chest with each anxious, life-giving breath. Strange, feral, sorrowful sounds are coming from my throat. I look down at the ground, away from him. Through blurry eyes, I see long strands of spit dripping from my lips, and as I watch them coat the dirt beneath me, I marvel that I don’t care. 

My mind leaps across time. From one memory to another, a rapid, fitful slide show of the past thirty-six years flashes before me. I am trembling, weak, and defeated.

 Something warm glides across my shoulder, a reminder that I am not alone. Ella is with me, and I thank God that she is here with me in this terrible moment.

I can hear her whimpers, and feel her body shaking. She kneels beside me, her hand sliding up and down my back. She has put it there to connect with me, to comfort me, but also to hold me in place. She knows me. She knows that I want to run over there, to scoop him into my arms. To hold him. To fix him. I lift my head up, and my knees press harder into soil from the effort. My arms are limp and useless, my chest is heaving. I look over at him once more, and another growl escapes my throat.

Ella has her pink phone against her ear. I can hear her speaking, but her words make no sense.

I fall forward, and my forehead touches the earth again. A deep breath, and I begin to wail. I am surrounded by darkness as the whine of a distant siren blends with mine.

19. Glen Phillips “Released”

In the years since Jared's death, I have spent many hours at the spot where he died. Some may find this morbid and unhealthy, and I admit that the first few times were exactly that. In time, however, as I came to a better understanding of what my brother had been going through and the absolute desperation he had felt in those final months of his life, I was able to sit quietly and imagine his final moments without suffering a complete breakdown. I watched as he walked outside and felt the sun warm his skin while a slight breeze tousled his hair. His decision to leave the world made, he crossed the lawn looking into the big blue above, not believing that any sort of God was watching and caring. But I have no doubt that in some small corner of his mind, Jared was hoping to find a heavenly father waiting for him with open arms on the other side, to offer him the peace of unconditional love that he craved.

I won't be convinced by anyone or anything that Jared's sliver of hope wasn't fulfilled. I refuse to believe in a God that would withhold from Jared the only thing that could possibly make him happy and well, the thing he wanted more than anything else in this world.

20. The Weepies "World Spins Madly On"

Elizabeth and I spent last week in Hawaii, a welcome reprieve from the day to day. On our last evening spent at the beautiful North Shore of Oahu, we went shopping for tee shirts for the kids. Standing at the back window of a local shop, I watched a group of stand-up paddle boarders out on the ocean, and thought about how much I was going to miss the curling jade-colored waves. As I mused about our week in Paradise, the opening strums of "World Spins Madly On" by The Weepies came over the store's sound system. I stood an watched the world around me spin madly on, and marveled at the fact that is has been almost five years since Jared died.

Life has gone on, in defiance of the many moments that I have wanted it to pause, or even at times to end. Jared's death, in addition to bringing great sadness and guilt into my life, has also brought great joy and hope. My kids are more precious, my life is more meaningful, and for the most part sweeter to live.

Halfway through the song, Elizabeth came and stood beside me.

"Perfect timing, don't you think?" she said, letting me know that I was not alone in my thoughts.

"Yep," I replied, enjoying the buzz and spark of her presence as it tingled up and down my right side.

Thank-you, Jared.