Tonight, my school choir sang at an event, one where the speakers and, well, everything truly moved me. Not with joy, not with excitement, but with sorrow.
We sang at a memorial for victims of homicide. The few stories shared were painful, and were just plain sad. I can't even describe it, really.
I have never had a loved one taken from me by homicide. But I know people who have. And I wanted to give something out. It isn't much, but this was what came to me.
Isabella twisted and turned in her bed, awakening with a gasp.
Eyes brimming with tears, she sat there, both unwilling and unable to move. The details of the nightmare- no, the memory that she had recalled were just as painfully clear upon awakening as they had been while she was asleep.
It was the same dream, the same day of every year since she was four:
It always began with her walking out of a mall during a thunder storm. It wasn't Danville; this was before she moved, and in actuality it was this memory that had caused the move.
Isabella and her Mama were to meet Isabella's father by the exit. He had left to move their car while they were in the checkout line of a store because he had wanted 'both his girls' to stay dry. But the car wasn't there.
Instead, there were sirens and the flashing lights of police cars. An ambulance was farther back, with paramedics piling out.
A police officer approached and Isabella's Mama asked, "What's happening, officer?"
The officer motioned for them to stay back. "There's been an assault here. Do you know a Mr. Garcia-Shapiro?"
Isabella's Mama paled. "He's my husband…" she whispered fearfully.
The officer started, and Isabella wondered what the matter was. At five, she didn't know what an assault was.
"I'm sorry, Mrs. Garcia-Shapiro. He- he's over here," the officer stated, turning toward a crowd of what Isabella only saw as doctors.
Isabella tugged on her Mama's arm as they approached the group. "Mama, what's the matter?"
Her Mama didn't reply. Isabella tugged her arm harder, but there was no indication that her attempts at attention were even felt.
They stopped at the edge of the group, and Isabella could make out the shape of a person in there. "Mama? Who's-"
Her question was cut off by her Mama's sudden shriek. Isabella jumped, releasing her Mama's hand and watching as her Mama, whom she had never seen cry, collapsed in tears on the asphalt.
Isabella wondered what was in there that made her Mama cry. She ran around to the other side of the crowd, hoping for a better view. One of the men got up and Isabella saw who was in there.
"Papa?" she called out. Walking closer, she barely noticed how the rest of the men were moving away, many moving to the side of her Mama.
Her Papa lay there, almost like he was asleep. But Isabella knew he wouldn't sleep on the ground; it was hard and people could step on him. She saw his shirt, a normally cheerful yellow, with two tears in it and covered in red. It looked like the stuff that had come out of her finger when she had gotten a paper cut, but there was so much more.
"Papa?" she whispered, kneeling beside him and shaking him gently. He didn't answer.
"Papa? Can we go home now? Papa?" She shook him harder, hoping he would wake up.
She looked at his face, noticing his normally joyous expression twisted in pain and fright. "Papa? Please wake up," she whispered.
A hand rested on her shoulder. Isabella looked up to see the officer that had met them at the door. "Sweetie, I'm afraid your Papa can't wake up right now."
Isabella shook her head. "Papa will. He always does."
The officer shook his head. "I'm sorry. Not this time."
Isabella pulled herself out of his grasp. "You're wrong," she breathed.
She flung her arms around her Papa's neck. She nearly recoiled when she found him cold. "Papa, Papa…" she sobbed, hoping for him to wake up.
But he didn't.
Isabella began to sob. Why? she cried silently. Why so soon? I barely remember him. He should have been there, should be here!
The pain in her heart was excruciating. Regardless of the years, it never faded. It was almost forgotten at times, but it surfaced in many, many ways. From Daddy-Daughter dances spent alone to the hollowness of Father's Day, it was always remembered. And, every year, on the day of his death, she dreamed of her loss.
She felt a shifting in the bed beside her. Arms wrapped around her and drew her close. Isabella leaned into her husband's strong, yet gentle, embrace. It didn't help the pain, for nothing did. But she did feel that she wasn't alone.
He knew what she had gone through. His father had also been killed, not too long after she had met him. Their pain had forged a friendship that had lasted for many, many years. Even after he gained another father, and a brother, their friendship and understanding of each other's pain did not falter.
"It'll be okay, Izzie," Phineas murmured. "It'll be okay."
She held him tighter. They both knew that it wouldn't. The pain could only recede, never die. Their lives had been brutally torn apart, and nothing could ever truly fix them.
His eyes filled with tears, and hers fell freely.
In the morning, the hurt would dull until they could act like nothing was wrong. The next day, they would be back to their normally cheerful selves, the ache only a whisper at the edge of their consciousness.
But tonight, it was there, tearing their hearts apart anew. They took what little comfort they could in each other. And, somehow, it was enough.
It is a far cry from a happy ending. I don't think I will truly understand this pain. But I can say that my heart goes out to everyone who does.
This story is my Memorial to the victims of homicide. I hope that those of you readers who have been through this know that there are others out there who will understand you, even if I'm not one of them. I hope that you can find some peace of mind and peace of heart.