Morals

                                                                                        Morals

         For every rhyme or reason there is an excuse. For every consequence there is an action that produced it. For every lie there is a truth that could have been told and a heart that could have been saved. No, this is not a rant about relationships or love and how much broken hearts suck. We all know that feeling and I want not to lend your interests to the natural and unarousing, but instead to the notions of things unexamined. The things that will no longer be known as things but now as another name, because things are collections of the journeys untraveled and the thoughts that have yet to be conceived.

                                                                                  ************************

         The constant clattering of lockers against red metal would not normally set my emotions up in flames, but that would be on a normal day. Today is far from that. This is the day after the world around me diminished to a dusty pile of rubble. The day that rainbows and pretty colored things turned from all shades to one dull mix of grey and became motion blurred by the million questions creating a whirlwind of emotions inside my skull. But these emotions, though complex and exasperated, refuse to surface. Instead, they choose to fester inside and disable any hope of a connection I may have left with reality. It’s as though even emotions are emotionless in comparison to the constant ups and downs of a normal teenage life. I am a soul inside a body no longer. Just a zombie, forever lost in the tribulations of the morning prior to the infestation.

         It was a morning full of the contents of an empty milk carton which lay splattered across the dinette, the beige tile, and dripping down the auburn cupboard. The air sulked in a hollow dial tone past the sound of plastic against granite and the shattering phone pieces sprawled askew. But none of those sights or sounds from yesterday registered into my long-term memory with any sort of detail. Much like my walk to first class and the people, conversations, and normal activities will not only be ignored now, but will also become unrecallable. Why should lesser energies absorb my thoughts when something much more trivial demands my attention? He’s not coming home. The news no ear should have to listen to and no brain should ever be forced to decode for meaning. Searching for honesty in a monotone voice on the other end of the receiver, a voice patiently waiting to expel such obscenities that it can harbor nothing but lies… no, lies accompany a tinge in the vocal chords or a skipped beat between breaths… none of which took place. But what reason would coerce someone with such rank to commit such a disdainful crime against truth? No motive I have ever fathomed has been packed with such gratitude that one would aimlessly fire out the message, “Private Sykes will not be returning home. We sympathize with you during your time of loss. His belongings will be returned to his place of residence momentarily. We apologize greatly for whatever heartache this may cause.”

         In the few moments it took to process the vile I had just heard, I slightly recall sobs and an utterance of mumbled gasps on the end of the receiver down the hall. The sound of Trent’s mother, awestruck, the true bearer of such ample news. In a weird way, I’m glad I answered the phone in the kitchen.  I know Ms. Sykes would have never been able to spew even a mere passage of what was just thrust upon her shoulders. Eavesdropping on her conversation was not my intention, I just assumed I would be able to answer before she did, saving her the trouble. But then again, I was not expecting to hear Trent’s recruiting officer, Sergeant Reynolds, uttering those somber words. To ask her to listen to the sound of her own voice reciting this news, to live the truth of her sons fate in the security of her mind, the only place she has left to escape the constant reminders of him, would be a rusted nail infested walk in bare soles to a fire fed by fury. The worst part is knowing that this is going to be difficult for all of us, and there is nothing I can conjure to make this problem disappear. I can do nothing but sit silently and gaze into a pit of memories, unaware of my surroundings for the rest of my life.

         Lost in my thoughts, the bell grabs me like the Grim Reaper pulls an unexpecting suspect to their doom. I robotically direct my steps towards my classroom which is further away then I had realized. Momentarily, I am grounded by a world amidst the dusty rubble but I know this sanity will not last long. I can’t help but become consumed amidst my recollection of times spent with Trent and envision times yet to come that will feel hollow without him. Even going through the motions normally experienced without his presence, such as my daily drag at school, feels wrong, out of place.

         Life after the loss of a loved one is never something taken lightly, but the loss of someone that you love who will never be returning to American soil, someone who died by the hands of another in a place foreign and unfamiliar, someone you love who died alone, without you there for him to hold onto or to reassure him you will never leave and that he will never be alone… someone you never were granted the opportunity to say goodbye to… there is no loss quite like that.