It’s all relative. Tragedy that is. It comes in all forms and degrees, but the constant of tragedy is that it comes. In the past week I heard of the sudden death of a co-worker and the passing of a former co-worker’s child after only four months of a life his parents knew would be brief. Add to that smashed automobiles, the never-ending nightmare of heroin addiction and an increasing struggle to simply fucking walk are the various tragedies I’m witnessing on a daily basis.
The last time I was at my brother Kevin’s house we took a midnight stroll with our cigars and cosmo’s up the left rough of the fairway to Karl and Sharon’s. They welcomed us with cocktail refreshments and Karl on the gorgeous Estonia piano in their conservatory. As the sounds ran smoothly from the sheet music through the optic nerve to the fingers to the cochlea, they heightened the senses as Sharon gave me the tour. I recall the family pictures and the custom mural in their dining room. They commissioned a local artist to depict the generational progress of a family. As we circled the room, the art showed the family grow and the memories build.
This morning their family memories are confined to the minds of Karl and Sharon. Their home and all their possessions lay in ashes within a blackened shell. The documentation; the story of their lives… gone.
I know it will take a while, but in the not too distant future, Sharon will have a home distinctly hers and Karl will fill it with music. Tragedy comes. We overcome.