November 4, 2012
This Precious Life/ Essay # 4
Life can be so precious, one minute you are here and the next you are gone. October 10, 1991, a day that will forever stay with me. I was seven years old and at home with my siblings playing baseball in our house. Playing any sport of any kind in the house was a big no, no. Those were things that were meant for outside play, but as children you don’t always follow the rules. My brother stood in our living room with his red plastic bat in hand and swung as hard as he could hitting the white plastic ball my younger brother threw to him from the couch. The ball hit the bat and flew into our family photo on the fireplace mantel, shattering the glass. My father rushed downstairs to find glass all over the floor and no children in sight. His voice was loud and boisterous; he called for the three of us to come into the living room immediately. We crawled out from behind the couch only to find our father not as mad as his voice had led us to believe he was.
His eyes could tell you exactly what he was feeling. You could look at those hazel eyes and know just what he was thinking. Tonight his eyes were soft and forgiving; he had this look in them that only a father of five little kids could have. He helped us clean up the glass and told us he was not feeling well and he was going to lie down. Even as a child, you find a way to sense that things just don’t seem right, and as it turns out they were not. As my mother returns home just a few minutes later, she too can sense that something is wrong. It is not the broken picture frame that is sitting against the fireplace mantel, it is my father. I can hear the sounds of her white tennis shoes running up the stairs and the high pitch screams to call 9-1-1. Everything seems as though it goes in slow motion from there. It is as if the world has come to a standstill and you are watching it from inside a bubble.
People rushing in and out, the loud...