Tragedy

 Many say that death is just another part of life. We are born into the world as innocent children who aren't entirely good, and end with death waiting at our bed side tables. But alas, still not entirely good, except for one soul. How kind and selfless she was, how much she cared for everyone is immeasurable. Of course, the woman I am referring to is my mother.

Before she fell ill, she was known as Lilian Jane Jacobs. After Mother's sickness became terminal, no one cared about who she was previously, she was thought of as a monster by the neighbor kids. A pale-faced, skeletal, mute, coldblooded monster.

I would sit next to the bedroom window to make sure no one would try to approach the house. I would often find children looking in with their noses pressed up against the glass. I would leave my post to chase them off, but by the time I got outside, they were halfway down the road.

I preferred the curtains to be closed, but my mother would signal otherwise. Because of her sickness, it was usually very difficult to communicate with my mother. When we both learned sign language, she told me how she thought it was important for the children to see her in her time of great suffering. They would still be curious even if they saw her or not, "so why let them starve," as it were.

On the other hand, my father, who was once a gentle and generous man became a raging alcoholic. As expected, the peeping children caused him more anger than everyone in the family.

Whenever Father would spot a child anywhere near the house, he would try to throw stones at them. This would usually result in him overworking himself and passing out on the sidewalk. My once professional, clean cut father, now a shell of the man he once was.

Due to the circumstances, my grandmother would usually take on the rolls my father had fulfilled beforehand.

My grandmother is a stern, no nonsense type of woman. She was beyond disappointed with how far my father had fallen. She would quarrel with him as though he was a child; she would clean up after him too. He had not only brought shame to himself, but his family as well. My grandmother thought that her daughter, my mother, deserved "a strong, healthy gent not a dirty rotten tyrant," in my mother's time of great sickness.

It was not that my father did not care for my mother, he just didn't know how. Mother's illness brought my father incomprehensible amounts of pain. The anxiety of doing everything right for her was his greatest downfall.

Father could not afford all the necessities after the costs of Mother's medication. It was either the medication or the electricity each month. Most nights were spent relighting candles and checking the water supply.

That is what my grandmother did not understand. While my father was almost always entangled in his own regrets, it did not mean he didn't still care for his wife.

Between all the work it took to take care of my parents, me and my brother, Noah, were usually neglected. With me being fifteen and him being eight, we both handled the situation very differently.

I would try to busy myself with chores around the house; it got very dirty when no one was looking after it. On the other hand, my brother wasn't quite the same.

It was very difficult to explain what exactly the situation was to Noah. He didn't quite understand the severity of the situation. Noah had always been a very inquisitive person. Ever since Noah was a toddler, he would ask questions about humanity and the world.

As expected, Noah had swarms of questions, one after another. "What's wrong with Mama?"; "Who are those children and why are they staring into Ma's bedroom?"; "Why is Papa so different now? Is he sick?" The questions would never end.

While my brother's questions would irritate me, I felt a deep sadness and worry for him. Whenever I would cry for my mother and father, I would cry for Noah too. It is not my brother's fault that he had been forced to learn the harsh realities of this world so quickly; the way it all came about wasn't fair to anyone.

Besides Noah, everyone knew the consequences of my mother's illness. While we did not like to admit it, we all knew that her illness would end up winning over her in the end. It did not make it any easier for us cope as her illness worsened. I knew I would have to stay strong for both my mother and brother.

My mother did not like to see me cry. Whenever I would show any sign of weakness, she would clasp my face in her hands and kiss my head. Her kisses were very reassuring, but also heartbreaking. She knew what was waiting for her on the other side, but I would never get to experience her love ever again; I had to cherish it. Even in her worst quality of life, she still managed to be an angel.

As my mother's health declined, so did my father's patience with the world. Our father's violent fits of rage down right terrified me and my brother. So much so that we established a hiding spot under the kitchen sink in case things got muddy. We would hold each other tight until the sounds of broken glass and yelling ceased. By that time, we would assume that our father had tired himself out and was drunkenly stumbling throughout the hallways.

No one at school understood the trials my family and I had been put through. How could they? How could they understand or sympathize with us? I did not want any of their sorrow or remorse, none of it felt true. All the children knew is that someone was dying, and they were curious. Someone was crying, the children were curious. Father's fists were flying, the children were curious.

When my mother did eventually pass away, total chaos was unleashed. When my brother saw our mother lying motionless, he was immediately put off. "What's wrong?!" he exclaimed. He then proceeded to shake her with vigor. I watched his feeble attempts to wake her and I knew what was coming. "N-Noah," I started with a quiver in my voice, "She isn't going to wake up." At that moment he realized exactly what had happened. He then proceeded to grab onto our deceased mother and wail.

Our father had heard Noah's screams and entered the room. He took one look at her dead body and ran out of the house, down the street. He was never seen again.

Later that day at our grandmother's house in our time of grieving, a police officer arrived bearing some rather unfortunate news. The officers informed us of the whereabouts of our father. He told us that our father had climbed atop the water tower and jumped off; he had committed suicide.

Noah and I are now living with our grandmother. It has been torture watching what this whole ordeal has done to my brother. A once cheery and inquisitive boy with a joyful spirit, now silent and morbid, much like a dark cloud on a summer's day.

Now here I stand, my shadow lingering in front of my parents' freshly mounted tombstones, reflecting on what has happened and what is to come. It all happened so fast. I really don't know what to make of the tragedy.