Day: December 19, 2009

1955-2009

mayiwrite church, friends, mormonism, nostalgia , , ,

The Copelands are a prominent family in the church community in these parts, as are the Atkinses. The Jenkins family are also well-known, as are the Newtons. Anyone who has been a member for any length of time in any of the Jacksonville stakes of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints in the past 50 years has heard of these families. These families know each other. They grew up together; their kids went to the same school and church activities. They intersect with other families and strengthen their lines. Posterity continue to branch out over the region and across state or country boundaries.  They’re legends. They’re saints. Our respect for them runs deep.

Today, we acknowledge one gone. A Newton. She left us on Thursday, suddenly.

I walked into a nearly packed chapel this morning. The building itself seemed to heave a sigh. We all were trying to understand how before Thursday she was with us, and now, she is without us for a season.

It was jarring to hear the obituary and wonder what it is like to be survived by your parents; to wonder if the parents at all question the fairness of this circumstance.

The front of the printed program indicates she’s only 10 days older than my mother.

My brother and I grew up with her kids. My mom taught her son in Primary. I’ve always admired her family, her temperament, her countenance and outlook on life. She has definitely helped keep the Newton legend alive.

We strive to rejoice constantly in God’s plan for us. We’ll see our loved ones again; we can be with our families forever. It truly is comforting to have that knowledge.

But, it certainly is okay to mourn her absence.

We miss you, Vicki.

Wreck, Draft

mayiwrite writing , , ,

She widened her eyes, then squinted.

A single point appeared from deep within the tunnel.

She stood near the middle of the platform, northbound side. Not too many people waited around her, just a few latenight commuters, a few awkward couples on midweek dates.  She held her arms slightly away from her body. Her jeans clung to her legs and her back felt sticky underneath her lightweight t-shirt. Sweat pasted her hair to her forehead. The summer heat had seeped through the streets down into the tunnels, turning the underground maze into a giant steamroom. No one talked; no one held hands. Everything perspired.

Her heart raced.

The approaching train pushed hot air through the station. Its nearing, thunderous momentum shook the platform. The train’s lights grew larger and soon she saw its whole face. She saw the front windows; she saw the door you can’t open from the inside. She saw the driver. She took a deep breath.

She timed it.

She closed her eyes.

For a split second, her body stayed mid-air.

Silence surrounded her as the train slammed into her, punched that last breath from her lungs,  bumping her forward a few feet before she fell onto the tracks.

She figured not to jump over the space between the rails, on the chance of the train passing over her and maybe even allowing her to survive. She tumbled and bounced between the rail nearest the platform and the far rail.

And, the third, high-voltage rail.

The brakes screeched. The train lurched. But she did not hear or feel this. She did not hear witness screams. She did not hear voices of loved ones in her mind or see flashes of friends’ faces. She did not smell her skin burn.  She did not feel ribs crack or organs crush or limbs sever or her own breathing arrest; her own corpse, a tattered lump.

Her eyes fell open.