It was november in 1968 when my brother Mark was killed. I was at college and that day is forever etched into my memory. I remember being awoken by the sub warden knocking at my door early that sunday morning, and i could tell by his face that something was not right. He told me that there was a phone call for me and that I could take it in his flat. I dressed hastily and lumbered down the 14 flights of stairs, not waiting for the lift, wondering what could possibly have happened. I cannot recall the chain of thoughts that passed through my mind but I do remember the overwhelming sense of dread.
As I picked up the phone, my mother's voice sounded so far away; she was having difficulty in speaking and then she told me that Mark, on his motorcycle, had been in a collision with a car on his way home the previous night, and had died immediately. I felt a numbness and told her that I'd come home as soon as possible, knowing that I had no money for tickets. I went back to my room, locked myself in and collapsed onto the bed. I cried that morning more than I had ever done, and when there were no more tears I put on my coat and went for a walk in the rain. I wanted to be alone, I needed time to sort out my head and the rain seemed to help. By the time I got back to my room, I was soaked to the skin and cried out. Only late in the day did word get out and my friend Dave rescued me from my despair.
I have never felt so desolate as I did that day, and dismal november days like today remind me of it. Mark would be approaching his sixty first birthday now, had he not been out that night, or had ridden more carefully than he did. As it happened he was approaching his eighteenth birthday when he died.
I still think of him and what he might have become.
As I picked up the phone, my mother's voice sounded so far away; she was having difficulty in speaking and then she told me that Mark, on his motorcycle, had been in a collision with a car on his way home the previous night, and had died immediately. I felt a numbness and told her that I'd come home as soon as possible, knowing that I had no money for tickets. I went back to my room, locked myself in and collapsed onto the bed. I cried that morning more than I had ever done, and when there were no more tears I put on my coat and went for a walk in the rain. I wanted to be alone, I needed time to sort out my head and the rain seemed to help. By the time I got back to my room, I was soaked to the skin and cried out. Only late in the day did word get out and my friend Dave rescued me from my despair.
I have never felt so desolate as I did that day, and dismal november days like today remind me of it. Mark would be approaching his sixty first birthday now, had he not been out that night, or had ridden more carefully than he did. As it happened he was approaching his eighteenth birthday when he died.
I still think of him and what he might have become.
No comments:
Post a Comment