Golden Ash

I greeted her in the hallway with a gentle squeeze, that kind of hi-I’m-happy-to-see-you-and-have-no-idea-what-to-say embrace, as if words mattered anyway.
“You know?” she asked.
“Yes,” I replied. “I’ve been praying for you everyday.”
She forced a smile and nodded before she turned into the salon.

When I made the appointment, they asked me at the front desk if I would kindly refrain from discussing the situation, per her request. Of course, I agreed.
I took a seat at her station and waited.
She stood behind the chair and began to cut my hair.

“I has been a week of firsts,” I began, “one after another.”
“Oh,” she sighed, not ready to talk.
“I capsized the sailboat with both the kids in it,” I continued. “That was a trip.”
“Were they scared?”
“Terrified. They shrieked and clung to me like marsupials.  I had to pull them off and let them float before I could flip it back up.  That was a first.”

I paused.
“Yesterday, I went to a retirement community for the first time—a pristine place full of older folk, many of them just waiting to die.” I shook my head. “Weird.”
“Yeah,” she muttered.
Despite her quiet, I sensed a yearning to share or release or vent or perhaps a blending of the three, a space I could not possibly fathom.
“Then I walked in here and saw that huge rack of nail polish,” I said. “It must take some clients half an hour to pick what color to paint. Never noticed one of those either.”
“That’s not even all that big.” She answered, a few more words.

“Are you eating?” I queried.
“Trying,” she stated. “I’ve been able to do chicken soup—that’s about all.”
“That’s good,” I remarked. “I can’t even imagine,” I continued.
She began to open up.
“What kills me is that it was so unnecessary.” She stopped cutting. “Twenty people stood around and did nothing.”
“Unbelievable.” I glanced at her gaunt face in the mirror. “Tragic. How’s the family?’

“Who?”  She furrowed her brow.
“Wasn’t he married?” I questioned.
“Oh,” she repeated. “Not too good. She’s young, though. She’ll recover.” She looked down at the floor. “Me…I’m not too sure.”
I held my tongue.
“Now I have to get ready for the lawsuit—so ridiculous. Do you know anyone who would like a dog? As much as I love him, I don’t think I can keep mine with all this stuff going on.”
“Give it a little time,” I suggested.

She finished the cut and pulled the apron from around my neck.
As I stood to hug her goodbye, she reached into her breast.
“I have a first for you,” she declared. “Have you ever seen one of these?”
She pulled out a pendant on a chain, a golden heart, more plump and rounded than any I had ever seen.
“Beautiful,” I admired.
She handed it to me and I cradled it in my fingers.

“It’s an urn,” she shared. “A jewelry urn.”
As the tears welled in my eyes, I read the inscription that captured everything, every emotion, every feeling, every ounce of pain and every memory—two words that simply stated: “MY SON.”

That’s A View From The Ridge…

NOTE: This column was written in tribute to a dear friend who recently lost her son, under tragic, unnecessary circumstances. I intentionally omitted any names to protect her privacy. May he rest in peace.