You know that kid? A lot of neighborhoods have one: an ever-curious ball of energy who's always running up and down the block, excited about some new scheme to pass away the idle hours of the day. Ever since I moved to my current neighborhood that kid has been Derek. I'll see him out there on my way home from work, smashing his trucks into each other, or trying to get in on a game of basketball with some bigger kids. Occasionally he'll make me a little apprehensive, like the time I saw him messing around with a power drill, or when he decided to take a large shovel and start digging a hole in the dirt of one of the more messed-up parts of the sidewalk. He's always asking me questions: "Where are you running?", "What are you carrying?", "Is that your daughter?" (referring to my wife, who for the record is four years younger than me). Often he'll launch right into the next question without even waiting for an answer. Many times I've wondered what kind of person he'd turn out to be when he grew up.
Last night as I was taking the garbage out one of my neighbors happened to mention in the elevator that there was a memorial for Derek down the street. Drowned, she said. Just the previous evening.
Ever since then my life has been a constant stream of images that I'm still trying to process: Derek's teenage cousin explaining what happened in a surprisingly matter-of-fact tone, complete with the exact times of the phone calls, while she carried a small dog in her arms; the memorial in front of Derek's house, with its toys, pictures, candles, and "R.I.P." spelled out in red-white-and-blue wax on the pavement; the cops pulling up later in the evening to make Derek's relatives turn off the music they'd been playing from a car stereo as they gathered to remember him.
He was eleven, and tiny for his age. It happened in a backyard pool in East Hampton. He'd run off again, and in the space of a few minutes he was found lying beneath eight feet of water. According to a news report the police are doing an autopsy, but they don't have reason to believe it was anything other than an accident.
Even though it happened out of town, even though he'd only existed on the periphery of my busy life, I still find myself wondering if there was something I could have done---some advice I could have given. I hate the part of me that sees this as something that was always a potential consequence of Derek's behavior. That voice may be trying to make me feel better, but I don't WANT to feel better. Not just yet, anyways. Then there's the part of me that's trying to see if there's a lesson to come out of this story, as if anyone's life---no matter how short---could (or should) ever be reduced to something so pat.
Like I said, I'm still trying to process all of this. I needed to get it all down somewhere though, just to keep it from swimming around in my head in circles any longer. Now I need to find out when the service is.
Rest in peace, little guy. I hope you're somewhere now that has more answers to your questions than I ever did.
Last night as I was taking the garbage out one of my neighbors happened to mention in the elevator that there was a memorial for Derek down the street. Drowned, she said. Just the previous evening.
Ever since then my life has been a constant stream of images that I'm still trying to process: Derek's teenage cousin explaining what happened in a surprisingly matter-of-fact tone, complete with the exact times of the phone calls, while she carried a small dog in her arms; the memorial in front of Derek's house, with its toys, pictures, candles, and "R.I.P." spelled out in red-white-and-blue wax on the pavement; the cops pulling up later in the evening to make Derek's relatives turn off the music they'd been playing from a car stereo as they gathered to remember him.
He was eleven, and tiny for his age. It happened in a backyard pool in East Hampton. He'd run off again, and in the space of a few minutes he was found lying beneath eight feet of water. According to a news report the police are doing an autopsy, but they don't have reason to believe it was anything other than an accident.
Even though it happened out of town, even though he'd only existed on the periphery of my busy life, I still find myself wondering if there was something I could have done---some advice I could have given. I hate the part of me that sees this as something that was always a potential consequence of Derek's behavior. That voice may be trying to make me feel better, but I don't WANT to feel better. Not just yet, anyways. Then there's the part of me that's trying to see if there's a lesson to come out of this story, as if anyone's life---no matter how short---could (or should) ever be reduced to something so pat.
Like I said, I'm still trying to process all of this. I needed to get it all down somewhere though, just to keep it from swimming around in my head in circles any longer. Now I need to find out when the service is.
Rest in peace, little guy. I hope you're somewhere now that has more answers to your questions than I ever did.
2 comments:
I remember him telling you, "You like a Jew" when you were dressed up to go somewhere! I wondered about what he'd be like as a grown-up too. The whole street is going to miss him.
(PS - If anyone is wondering what's up with the "Jew" comment, it's because we have a lot of Hasidic Jews in the area, and they're always formally dressed)
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