My Grateful and Broken Heart

I was talking with my granddaughter the other day when something she said tore at my heart. "I'm probably going to die young in a car accident." For more than a moment I felt lost and wounded and would have had to sit down if I'd been standing. All of it at just the thought of my sweet, cherished grandchild not only dead, but violently and too soon.

Yep. She loves me.

At the same time that I am struggling against this grief that feels much too real she is looking at me with the look she always gives me when she's testing my love for her. More accurately, when she's wondering if I still love her given what she's just said or done. At that moment I put aside the catch in my throat that is threatening to make me cry. I realize we are having a conversation about life by way of talking about death. She's wondering if I will tell her not to say that or that nobody including her can know when or how they will die.

She really likes this show.

So, I breathe and ask her why she thinks this. "I just think so," she says. "Hmm. That's interesting. (And, I mean it.) Did you have a dream? Did it just pop into your head?" I want her to know she can tell me more if she wants. 

"No. Some of my friends think it too."

"Wow. I think I'm gonna be really old when I die." This is a true statement. I tell her that I would be really sad if she died and that I hope she's wrong. This is the most true thing.

Just as quickly, she is done talking about death for the moment. We have the rest of the weekend together; talking, tussling, playing Bopit, cleaning the house, walking around the neighborhood. Later, the subject of death comes up again. This time it's not about her particularly. It's a question about God and death. I don't really have answers. But she looks to me for them. I feel honored.

We saw the season's first egret on our walk.

There are lots of things I thought I had to do over that weekend, things that would mean we couldn't talk and hang out until I was finished online or done writing the report or stopped researching a project. But what she said got me to thinking that she might be completely right about the time and means of her demise. In which case, there was no way I was going to give up a single moment that we could spend talking or laughing or just sitting close together.  It was great.

I Love DC: Metro Bus Zen - All the Way Live

It was a glorious Wednesday morning. My day off. Yayyyyyy! Got up at 6:30 just as the sun was coming up. Oh, it was gonna be a great day. Dirty laundry would get transformed. I was gonna watch episodes of Jimmy Fallon on the dvr. And then...

The phone rings. It's an automated call from the federal government. Oh, damn. I forgot to call into the jury duty phone line the night before. And, now I'm supposed to report at 8:30. It's 7 and I have 30 minutes to walk out the door or I'm gonna be late. I stand still for a minute and just breathe to keep from panicking. At 7:35 I'm walking out my front door whistling a little tune. [Hardly anybody whistles anymore. Have you noticed?]



I make it to the bus stop and only have to wait a few moments when the bus shows. As usual it's packed with kids on their way to "education hill". Mostly high school students. In two stops they will all get off. So, I patiently wait to get a seat.

I was sitting here.

I chose a seat in the bus' accordion tunnel. This is the place they have in the mega long buses that makes it possible for the bus to turn corners. Normally, I give these seats a pass. But today I cut my trek to the back of the bus short and sit. PDQ the bus fills up again. 

It's the usual morning rush hour crowd. The young. The old. The in between. The black. The brown. The white. All of us in it together. I'm bopping my head to the beat of "Brighter Day" on the mp3 player. My super efficient earbuds are shutting out the real life audio that is the soundtrack of the morning bus commute. 

I notice a skinny kid with low hanging jeans and a nice new blue sweater standing just across and to the right of me. He's probably 15. I first notice him because the outline of his butt cheeks pops out when he tries to hold on as the bus makes a lurch. Then I notice he's not wearing the standard school uniform khakis.  

Pants on the ground.

A stop later I notice that next to him is his contemporary; about the same age, same build, low hanging jeans, no uniform khakis, but the jacket he's wearing has seen better days. He's a regular on the X2 bus. I recognize him.


I'm thinking that they know each other. I think I see them do the fist pound. But, then the energy around them changes. The change is quick. Suddenly, they are tussling in the aisle. Almost right in front of me. In a moment the second one has the first one in a head lock. They are closer to me than to anyone else.


So, I touch the arm that he has around his almost twin's neck. We lock eyes. "Come on brother. Stop." His eyes have that look of someone lost to the power of violent rage. His grip tightens and he drags his victim out of my reach. Now they are in the aisle just to my right where the seats face into the bus. These seats are filled with women. Most of them young and white.  There are people standing and I can only see the boys' legs.


After waiting much too long (probably 15 seconds) for the ones who could do something to, you know, do something, I realize that I am actually now in that do-nothing group. Finally, I yell. "DRIVER! THERE'S A FIGHT ON THE BUS!" What had been a deadly quiet struggle is now framed in clamoring chaos.

Two men dash from the back of the bus. People are yelling.
"He's choking him! Let him go!"  
"He stole shortie's stuff! He's trying to get his stuff back."
"Don't let him off. Don't let him off. He stole his stuff."


I cannot really see what is happening. But I can hear the two men pleading with the boy to let go of his almost look alike. I can hear them grunting with the effort of trying to loosen his arms from around the other boy's neck. I can hear their bodies moving. It takes them a little longer to free the one boy from the other than it did for me to find my voice. But, no one pulls out their phone to record it.


The police were called. I don't know if the boy got his stuff back. I didn't think it a good idea to be late getting to the federal court. So, as the driver was facing off with the attacker/thief outside on the sidewalk I got off the back door. I passed the first boy, now sitting by the door and looking lost. I touched his shoulder.


The bus does not empty out completely. But, standing next to me on the sidewalk is one of the men who saved both boys' lives. I thank him. He nods and says he had to do it. I understand this completely.