Wednesday, October 22, 2014

Death at Sunday Dinner

I got off my late shift at the thrift store where I worked.  I pulled up to my house to see firetrucks and ambulance everywhere.  The little girl from across the street was sitting down on my cold, concrete driveway.  She wasn't over 10 years old, but she had a very adult demeanor that night.  She told me her uncle, her beloved Uncle May (short for Mahlon) had collapsed at the family's Sunday dinner.  She had been the one to call 911.  She had told the operator her uncle was "choking or something."  I spoke with the little girl's mom a few days later, and learned that the uncle had died of a sudden heart attack.  He had died instantly, so no one could have helped him.  The little girl was OK, her only concern being his eternal state.  May lived with the family, and the little girl loved him dearly.  Everyday, I would hear her greet him by saying, "Hey, May.  How's your day?  Hope it's OK."  They went for short walks together, and they loved to watch MASH together, as May had fought in the war.  That was over 25 years ago, and the little girl still visits the headstone on occasion.

The little girl is me, and I thought of Uncle May last night when I watched an episode of Columbo.  Peter Falk reminded me of May.

2 comments:

G-Ruth-A said...

Touching story of how a person's life and death impacted you. Thanks for writing!

The White Wave said...

Thanks for reading. Did you get the poetry book yet?