68,800,640 Seconds Ago
Have you ever heard the sound that comes from the belly of a mother who has just learned her child has died? I’ve been writing in some form or another since I was a small child so my vocabulary is broad. I do not, however, and likely never will know of a word that is effectual enough to describe that sound. I heard it on December 9, 2017, around 1:36 P.M. from a source that I never expected to hear it from — my sister.
We don’t know exactly what time my 41-year old nephew died that December morning, but when he was found shortly after 12:00 P.M. that day, he was still warm. He had invited a homeless friend to live with him who confirmed that they had stayed up until about 4:00 that morning, drinking and talking. I had exchanged texts with him until about 11:30 the night before and not at any point did he say he felt ill. We would later learn that he had succumbed to a heart attack, secondary to hypertension.
As a matter-of-fact, I spoke to him for what would be the last time the afternoon of December 8th when he called me. His car was running hot and he needed anti-freeze. He had tried to call his mom, my sister, but couldn’t reach her. That last call was brief. It’s amazing the things you remember in the aftermath of tragedy. I remember like it was yesterday that he called at exactly 2:16 P.M.
