My
parents took me to the doctor for an emergency examination while I was in
kindergarten. They had a sense of urgency which, at five years old, I had never
seen before. Our family physician wrote a prescription and sent us home. I
remember thinking nothing of it until I was spoon fed this foul mixture, and I
gagged before swallowing it. Also, my folks woke me in the middle of the night
to give me this same elixir once more.
Youth
and the fog of memory cloud one’s perspective and make the image in the rear-view
mirror of the mind fuzzy. I needed the medicine, yet I wasn’t sick. Back in
1968, things were a lot different from what they are today. I didn’t even have a
pediatrician. But the fact remains that something gave my parents and the
doctor a scare.
A
young girl in my class had died of viral meningitis.
She
passed away at five years old, and it still troubles me. I do not remember her
name or even her face. Perhaps as I write this, there’s mother and a father who
pause each day to recall her laugh, gaze at her photo, and shed a tear forty
years later. By now they are elderly, perhaps they are grandparents; yet, how
could they forget her?
My
life and that of the little girl crossed at one point. Though the thread was
thin which had connected us, there was indeed a portion of the fabric of
space-time where we had shared a common patch of Earth and moved along a collective
path toward maturation. Though, sadly, she did not make it any further.
To
a greater degree, her parents towed the same line, and they stood at the edge
of that plane of existence, which I had shared with their daughter. Is a tiny
ripple of one youthful life so great as to cause a wave of emotion powerful
enough to continue to intrigue a grown man?
Four
decades have passed, and I still think about my late classmate. She has the
effect of keeping me focused, as my life is supposed to have significance. I
will explain.
My
cynicism has caused me to question my life’s purpose. I’ve derailed the
concepts of destiny and fate, having any sort of influence over me. Looking
back, I see how past events have led me to where I am today, and it feels like
fate.
The
players who’ve accompanied me on my journey thus far, including, family,
friends, teachers, co-workers, and some victims I’ve encountered during my
years in law enforcement, have all contributed bits and snippets of truth and
awareness which only occurs to me when I cast off the cloak of skepticism and
become open to the charms of serendipity.
I
want to recollect this fated young girl back in elementary school. I can still
see where she sat in class and the back of her head. With her brown hair
clasped together to form pig tails, she sat upright in those first days of
school and listened Mrs. Sisti teach us the ABCs. Is it fair that I made it
this far in life and not her? What does it mean when a child dies? How do I
validate my additional fifty-six years of breathing for being lucky enough to
not get sick?
My
conscience cannot handle transience, the algebra of survival, and cosmic
disproportion. For this reason, I am compelled to assess my endurance, to make
good on an unearthed vow evoked by my introspection and unadulterated scrutiny
of what I deem to be providence. Why do I live? How am I so fortunate? And what
is the toll for continuing along this thoroughfare, this life?
For
the sake of so many before me, and including this girl of whom I write, I will
endeavor to be a good person. My goal shall be to contribute something to the
rest of us. Each day, I give a bit more, I think, as I follow a new string I’ve
discovered with my eyes wide open and my mind cleared of wretched disbelief.
My
children have passed the young girl in age; and, hopefully, I will never mourn,
God forbid, as her parents do to this day. This girl, this fleeting life, still
teaches; though her responsibility was never to die, but to grow.
There
is a photograph buried in an archive of snapshots and Polaroids at my dad’s
house. Captured on paper in one of these collections is an image of me in kindergarten.
I remember when the class portrait was taken. Her mom and dad no longer took
her to school by then; and, she never hanged her finger paintings in the
hallway with the rest of us for open school night.
I
intend to dig that picture out of the drawer where I store memorabilia. The
will is there, but not the effort. Perhaps I will find it one day when I sit
back and consider my life and how I got here. Sometimes, whenever I recall
everybody that I knew over the years, a little girl nudges me and reminds me
she had once lived and that she had mattered in this world. Her parents should
know that a new filament has been cast across the dimensions between life and
death, and their child continues to weave herself into the cloth of someone
else’s being. I shall secure this lifeline offered to me by my classmate and
keep myself grounded with the concept that I will justify my existence and
fulfill my obligations.
Decades
ago, a mom and dad lost their daughter. This man, once boy in her kindergarten
class, will never forget her.
Kindergarten physician viral meningitis parents space-time classmate life journey serendipity
