Beautiful Anna

Loss hits everyone at at some point; it hit me like a wall of concrete after my father died.

I had just left University and was living back at my parents,doing relief teaching in the local town. I had planned on spending my time there figuring out where it was I was going, what it was that I wanted to do with my life, but before I knew it, six months had slipped through my grasp and I was still none the wiser. I told Dad this one cool Autumn evening, when we were stood smoking after tea, on the front steps outside; our shared daily ritual. He breathed out a blue tinged cloud and followed it with his eyes.

"Well, I haven't yet decided on quite what it is that I'm doing with my life, and I'm fifty five years of age," he eventually replied, softly. Then shrugged. "Maybe it will come to me tomorrow; and your mother will let me off washing the dishes tonight." She didn't, of course, and his death three weeks later was unexpected.

I took time off to be there for my family and help out with the funeral arrangements. At the funeral my mother and sisters held eachother and wept, but I stood back. Maybe I felt I had to be strong. Maybe I feared what might happen if I did let someone put their arm around me. Two weeks later, I was relieved to return to casual work, and eventually the cogs of my life slotted back into place, oiled by the routine of mundane day to day life.

I probably appeared to be coping well, but this nightmare that I used to have as a small boy returned to me, night after night. In it I was running, pelting, along a thin dry crust of land towards my family. Suddenly, it cracked open and I was being sucked down into thick mud. It filled my mouth, ears, and nose. It oozed down my throat, and into my lungs, choking me. My sisters were looking for me from above. "Where's Matt?" They were asking "I'm here," I tried to shout, but of course, they couldn't hear me. As I sank further, their voices became more and more distant. The backs of my eyes stung when I awoke, but still, I did not cry.

The weeks slipped by again, but I no longer gave any thought to the future. Instead I moved through the days in a numb limbo. Then, my agency asked me to go into a Special Needs School. They warned me they were having problems getting teachers to stay because of the stressful environment. I promised I'd give it one day, only half bothering to wonder how bad it could it be.

It was in an Autistic Unit. By coffee break, I had been bitten, spat at, kicked, and only just prevented this girl called Anna from climbing out of a window. She repaid my concern for her personal safety by digging her nails into my face, and scraping them across my cheek, leaving several raw angry weals in their wake.

But for some reason I stayed. In fact, the stressful environment suited me perfectly. I was too busy to think, and in the evenings I was so exhausted that I collapsed into a deep dreamless sleep. I didn't have time to grieve. I didn't want time.

There were five children in that unit. Anna was far away the most challenging.

Eight years old, she was as strong, wild and sharp as a mountain cat. Sweeping through the classroom like a hurricane, she kicked, punched, and scratched indiscriminately, and her penetrating screeches were a familiar echo throughout the school corridors.

Yet, she was so beautiful, with an oval coffee coloured face, and liquid brown eyes fringed by long dark lashes. She loved to dance to "Jenny From the Block," but her limbs jerked clumsily when she moved, like a stiff wooden marriot puppet.

Wanting to develop her limited speech, the staff began to record a daily log what she said. At first the entries were predictable. "Toilet,"
"juice," "no." All one words, but after a few weeks other statements began to appear. "Check it out," was a particular favourite, and "Guys guys,calm down!" They all laughed at that one, because she was imitating me. She still lost control on a daily basis, but sometimes, her eyes were filled with mischief as she threw books and toys around the classroom, instead of terror and blind panic. She was making progress.

I, however was not making progress. The dreams had returned, stronger than ever, and the painful feelings they evoked were becoming increasingly difficult to contain, sapping all my energy. At family meals I picked up my plate, and moved away from my mother and sisters to sit in front of the T.V. I watched a lot of T.V. A one sided interaction with the world, over which I had control with a single button. I liked that.

Eventually, summer term swung around, and the children's first swimming lesson.

Once they were in the pool, the children were suprisingly happy and calm. The temperature was warm and soothing, and new toys to play with bobbed upon the gentle ripples. Anna lost her clumsiness and stiff gait as soon as she slipped into the water. She dived to the bottom and then glided from side to side, graceful as a otter.

Suddenly, her head reared up through the water in front of me. I flicked her teasingly with a few drops. She laughed out loud, and splashed me back, so hard that I was momentarily blinded by chlorinated water. Crying out, I placed my hands over my eyes.

Upon lowering them, I found Anna staring into my face, her large eyes actually appearing to express concern. She stroked the side of my face with one finger and said in her stilted manner,
"Matt, you O.K?"
Before I could stop myself, I replied,
"No."

She didn't hear me. She was already gone, ducking, dipping, diving to another corner of the pool. Then, I began to weep.

Of course, I managed to stop myself, and covered it up by saying it was just the chlorine stinging my eyes. But I think it was then that the process of grieving properly for my father finally began.