Comparisons Made - To What Avail?

The destructiveness in a small town Connecticut school is beyond the realm of mere insanity. And yet as we grieve, enduring the seemingly insurmountable realizations of life’s turmoils, what remains is the unseemly task of carrying on and moving forward with what we have left – vocations and avocations without real substantive meaning. But giving up and in to the magnitude of what our grief demands, a complete stoppage of our normal joys, is not the direction we choose as the necessary prescription if we are to recover.

I have no celebratory bells or whistles nor statements derived from the pens of the geniuses I’ve been privileged to read. Nothing said then or today offers any relief by the word form it takes. Sharing the disbelief of that day’s voided solace has brought the common man, the clergy, and the exceptional person along with the average everyday dolt together.

That night I drank far more than my normal potion. As usual, no grape would provide a softening element of relief. Like many, I cried at the sights and sounds being reported over and over again. Sitting there starring blankly at a television monitor as the station repeatedly displayed a continuous loop of the human devastation. Then the next day, and the next came without relief – the sight of caskets, too small to be caskets. Caskets should never be for six-year-old children; it was never God’s intent, at least that’s what I’ve been told.

And words come forth from the Talking Heads directed to anyone within listening distance. These people bear no fault; they are just messengers sharing as equals the realizations of the transformations caused by the unmitigated heinousness that will remain with us all forever.

They will never hear:

“Give me what you got…

“Don’t leave anything on the field…

“Come out of the locker room ready to play.”

“How happy can you get?

“How happy can you be?”

They ask and you choose to ignore. While listening to an individual who no wise person would want in their lives yet there he is, destiny’s gift to the world around him – as shallow as a pond could be while still being allowing some ounces of water to accumulate.   

“Do you have anything left?”

Comes now the momentary hesitation…

“Ok then,” he says with his hand extended waiting for the handing over of the ball.

“But Coach, you didn’t give me time to answer.”

“I didn’t have to. You were on empty; it was written all over you.”

“The Littlest Actors”

The man is an actor.

The actor is a man.

He’s a child; so is she?

What difference does it make?

It makes a great deal of difference.

Pardon me.

Excuse me.

Remove yourself. You’re in my way.

What difference does it make?

All the difference in the world.

To whom?

To me there will always be a difference.

He doesn’t really care.

He cares a great deal.

It’s obvious, isn’t it?

Not to me.

She doesn’t understand.

She understands everything.

Is all we attempt to do a game?

Is there a manager who decides?

Do we have anything left?

For those who have never played,

To take from us what is not theirs to take?

Those children are too young to play

But yet they have played.

Who awarded the right for a child’s removal, no matter the game?

Don’t take me from the game, dear Coach.

I have so much left in my tank, albeit such a tiny holder.

Ask my Mother about how much I can play.

She won’t be able to understand.

She doesn’t understand.

She understands everything.

The bewildered Father, friends, teachers, and the brethren along with all the rest -- their littlest actors gone.

At rise, the pleasantness of the moment is upon our cast of players.

All are at the ready to perform.

Then, without notice the darkest of curtains descends.

No applause, no gratitudes; our audience remains forever unfulfilled.

All is gone except for the memories.

At rise, what could have been will never be.

“The ball has been taken from them.”

HK