End of the Innocence- Part One

My sister’s future is sitting in a marble urn on a bookshelf in the spare room. She’s twenty three. My hope is that she has the time and strength to heal and build a new life. My fear is that it will always pale in comparison to the one that was stolen from her.

A week ago, they were bickering about some mundane detail of daily life. They were teasing each other, laughing together. Thinking about their future. Making plans. Making love. They had gotten to the place we were afraid they never would, the place my sister knew they’d end up- learning how to be true partners and being committed to marriage.

He was late coming home from work. For some reason, she got in the car to drive the route between their house and the restaurant they both worked in. She got caught in traffic- there was an accident- and called the restaurant, who said he’d left 45 minutes ago. Her heart sank as she pulled over and ran up to the scene. His helmet and motorcycle were laying in the road, destroyed, next to his lifeless body, thankfully covered in a sheet. The police wouldn’t let her anywhere near that sheet, and they wouldn’t tell her much because she wasn’t next of kin.

She called the restaurant and my Mom. A coworker who lives very near the scene of the accident walked over and took her home in her car. When my sister got home, she called his father and his sister to let them know before the police called. She also called me.

MH made a quick dinner and watched me pack. We loaded up the car, said our goodbyes, and I headed down to Atlanta. My Dad called as I pulled onto I-985 in Gainesville, to tell me that he would pay Mark’s final expenses if it was absolutely necessary. He thanked me for what I was about to do.

Over the next three days, I stood witness to my sister’s initiation as a widow.

I went with her to meet his family at the funeral home. The severity of the accident made cremation the only choice, so my sister and Mark’s family picked out an urn together, and decided that they would eventually vault the ashes in a cemetery, but until those arrangements could be made, my sister would keep the urn. We met his family twice more before the service; to collect his things at the Sheriff’s department and to exchange pictures for the memorial service.

I drove her past the scene of the accident for the first time, on our way to buy her something to wear to the service. Because twenty three year old women don’t have funeral dresses. I held her hand as we looked for the flowers her friends laid earlier that morning. She sat alone, though, after she opened the evidence bags to retrieve his wallet and nearly destroyed cell phone.

Taking care of my sister in these few days consisted mostly of trying to get her to eat whenever I had the opportunity. Thanks to her friends, who stopped in every few hours with a snack and a hug for her, I had a lot of opportunities. Every night around 2am, I gave her some Ativan in hopes that she might get at least a few hours of sleep before the grim errands of the next day forced their way into her grief. She made comments about still expecting him to come walking through the door, and asked questions about what she was supposed to do with her future now, having lost the centerpiece of that vision. I respond gently, with love and understanding, but I don’t really have any answers for her. I am as unprepared to deal with her as she is to deal with this.

Part Two
Part Three
Epilogue