Tuesday afternoon when I came home from work, Matthew was cutting our grass. Gerald hired him to do it last month, after he’d hurt his back, and we’d kept it up because he was a friendly, reliable 17-year-old kid who wasn’t charging a fortune to mow the lawns. I’d only spoken with him a few times on the phone and in passing, but I was impressed with his quiet confidence and gentle voice. I remember wondering to myself on Tuesday what Matthew was going to use his earnings for—was he saving up for something special? Was he taking a girlfriend out to dinner? Was he just hanging out and having fun with his friends?
I’ll never know the answer to that question.
Wednesday night, Matthew was killed by a drunk driver.
How do I make sense of this?
I know alcoholism is a disease. But how can I feel compassion for the 39-year-old man who got drunk on Wednesday night, then climbed behind the wheel and sped into Matthew’s car? How can I not feel rage and despair over this senseless death?
The one thing about becoming a parent that nobody warned me about was the extraordinary sense of vulnerability that comes with the love. With each new sign of independence comes a mix of pride and fear.
My heart breaks for Matthew’s family. I can’t imagine what they must be going through.
www.flickr.com
|
