Disclaimer: Not mine
A/N: More depressing than normal, I believe, but that would be because I went to a wake on Wednesday for a friend's father and it was so horribly sad.
You wonder where it all went wrong. The point at which it became all right to shoot a cop. Where it became more than all right. When it became a symbol of status on the streets. You look at the kids clutching the grandmother while the mother tearfully hugs the line of people coming towards her. She tanks them for coming as they take turns supporting her and offering further support. And you wait on this line, all the time trying not to cry. Clenching your jaw until you think your teeth might break and you might stop breathing because something seems to be lodged in your throat, digging at your throat with needles.
You find yourself what it must be like to grow up without a father, not even noticing the fact that you were without a father throughout your teenage years. That young boy, who's only ten now, will go through the toughest time of his life without a father. No one to play catch with or watch a football game with. No one to teach him how to drive and go through that awkward talk about girls and sex. No one to fight with when he gets older and angry over going someplace with a couple friends. That little girl, only twelve now, will also go through those hard years without a father. No father to sit with after a hard day, when she isn't getting along with her mother. No father to tell her, no, you can't go out with that boy. No father to awkwardly stop at the store and pick up some feminine product. No father to dance with at her wedding.
Your feet move without you noticing, going forward, slowly, waiting for your turn to hold the mother, the widow. It's a new title that she thought she'd never have to bear, and even if she did, she would be an old woman, a grandmother, happy with all the things she's done.
Finally, it's your turn, and you can't say anything because if you did, the tears might come. You might break down and start crying like she is now. So you bend slightly and hug her for all you're worth, for all she's worth, for all her husband was worth. "Thank you for coming, John," she chokes out through the tears and the sobs. You nod and hold her for another minute before letting the next person in line take your place. Moving to the side, you look at all the people around you, crying, dressed in black, wondering why only tragedy brings people so close for so short a time. A common pain that they gather around, rally around and try to support each other through it, even though they're all going through the same thing. And later, when they think everything has gone back to normal, they part, to wait for the next death, the next painful step in life.
You eyes rest on the casket, and you go back to wondering about the state of affairs these days. Shooting and killing cops who are fathers and sons and husbands and brothers. You wonder all this until somehow you're standing over the closed casket, not seeing the wood but the face beneath as you remember it. Missing your brother cop, your colleague, but most importantly, your friend. That's when the tears come pushing past the barrier in your throat that even now seems as if it's trying to suffocate you. This man had a job he loved, a family he loved, friends he loved and it was taken away with one bullet. You feel selfish suddenly, as if nothing you've ever complained about was really important. Not in comparison with this.
Nothing could compare to this.
