Sky Fall

Up ahead, I saw lights. And I knew. I knew, right then, in that very instant, that it was him. It was where he was.

            One warm, November night, I accompanied one of my closest friends on an excursion to the movies to see “Skyfall”, the action-packed continuation of James Bond’s escapades. After two large buckets of popcorn, handfuls of Hershey kisses, and frequent sips of soda, the movie finally came to a dramatic finish.

            My friend Sara’s mother picked us up at the entrance of the theatre. She lived nearby and I planned to stay there until my mother came to retrieve me, but once inside the car, the mother insisted on driving me home.

            We had only gone about 100 yards when my cell phone began to ring. It was my sister. I answered to hear her crying. When she spoke, I thought I heard her say, “I got into an accident.”

            “What? What happened? Are you okay? Where are you,” I asked her, worried and fearful.

            “No, Hannah. There’s been an accident. Jonathan Myers just got into a really bad car accident,” she told me, choking on every word as though it were swelling in her throat. I held my breath. I knew precisely what she was about to say and yet I still prayed, as many of us do. The moment lingered, and then dragged on and when I finally heard her words, they, themselves, prolonged like the echo of a blood-curdling scream.

            “He didn’t make it, Hannah.”

He… didn’t… make… it. He… did not… make… it. Jonathan… did… not… make… it.

I think I said something like, “What? No, this can’t be true. Are you sure? How do you know? No.”

Tears streamed from my eyes, inundating my world and clouding my vision and my thoughts. The moment was so surreal, so unreal, so unbelievable and absurd and preposterous and ridiculous and crazy and unimaginable and unintelligible.

At this point, Sara’s mother had pulled into the Chase parking lot. I hung up the phone. Sara asked me what was going on. Reluctantly, unwillingly, I told her. She made no indication of shock. In fact, she and her mother questioned the information, but I knew all the while that there was no possible way it could have been misconstrued. She was in denial.

Her mother asked me what I wanted to do. We continued on our way as I continued to sob. A couple of minutes seemed like hours and my tears stopped too quickly. My mom called and when I answered, I mentioned nothing of what had just happened. I told her nothing. I did my best to cover up my tears. I played into Sara and her mother’s strange way of dealing with something so obviously wrong and shocking. They ignored it and I followed their example. I let my mom know that I was on my home and hung up.

In a matter of seconds, I saw lights up ahead. Flashing lights. Blue. Red. White. And I knew. I knew, right then, in that very instant, that it was him. It was where he was. It was where he had been.

Let the sky fall.

Time Perception

 “Take them away. They shouldn't have to see me this way. Are they enjoying themselves?”

I'd always thought that my grandma would definitely be there at my high school graduation, college graduation, and even my wedding. She's someone who has just been there. In my eyes, she always would be.

About four weeks ago, my family and I visited her. She complained about awful pain in her back and strange spasms in her legs.

“I'm not doing that, Michael,” she insisted to my father. Her legs were definitely moving, but it was hard to tell if it was involuntary and we didn't want to offend her by denying her claims.

We stayed for a couple hours, trying to take her mind off the pain and get her to talk about her past. When she acknowledged her age, she shook her head, and, laughing in humored astonishment, said, “Things change.”

Two days later, Grandma was in the hospital. My aunt had brought her to a neurologist who admitted her. Nothing was certain as to what was the matter, but soon she was out of the hospital and in a rehabilitation center. We decided to go visit her there.

She was a different person. She was irritable, depressed, frustrated, and confused. At first, it was tolerable. We wheeled her to a brightly lit spot to talk. On other occasions when we had been there, the brightness was welcoming and cheerful, but this time it was white, sterile, and cold.

“Why did you come to see me?”

My parents looked at each other, exchanging their worry without words.

“Because we want to see you,” my mom explained.

“But why,” Grandma demanded loudly and coldly, attracting the attention of someone walking by. She kept her head down, barely lifting it to look us in the eyes.

My sister, who is five years older than me, had tears welling in her eyes. She knew five years more about Grandma than I did and it hurt to see her this way.

“Are you enjoying yourself,” she shouted to my sister, “Let's stop talking about this. Stop talking.”

But she kept rambling on, an endless string of hurtful and nonsensical remarks that I never would've imagined she'd say.

“Grandma, we just want to be with you because we love you,” I cried out, practically choking on tears that were forming. She didn't listen.

I wanted my grandma back. I wanted her to be okay. I didn't know if she would be. No one knew.

A week later, we returned. The doctors had discovered that her medication was changed and probably caused her disposition.

When we saw her, she smiled with delight, as usual, ecstatic that we had come to visit. She was still confused, but all was well.

I think it was that day when I realized that I couldn't take my grandma for granted anymore. My perception of time and how precious it really is changed.