Silence is a good thing.
On the last day of March, while enjoying a moment of sheer exhilaration skiing in Utah's Wasatch Range, I broke my leg and badly sprained my ankle. My ankle remains swollen; the bone is repaired -- mostly -- but ice is still part of my life.
On April 13, exactly two weeks after my skiing accident, my sister-in-law and niece were killed in an early morning fire at their home several towns east of where I sit. Their deaths were a profound shock to my entire family; the fire was extremely public, leading the local news broadcasts for the better part of two days. (Without any bragging but only with great pain, I report I was the 'family spokesman.') The house in which Fran and Rebecca were killed (Max, the family dog, also died) was utterly destroyed, collapsing upon them and sinking into the basement. Four people escaped; there were rumors of miracles, as it seemed impossible anyone could have survived. But rumors of that sort don't bring much comfort.
The house-that-is-no-longer was where I was first introduced to my wife's family. It was where we were to celebrate this past Easter; it was the major hub for all the big holiday celebrations in our family.
On June 10, after winter finally loosened its icy grip on New Hampshire's soil and our hearts and bodies returned to something resembling normal, I carried my mother's casket out of an old underground granite vault and buried her in the family plot near the shores of a lovely lake. My mother died in December 2010. One might think such an event would feel like closure, and it does, but only to a point. It is hard to let go.
The picture above was taken shortly after Fran and Rebecca's deaths (I took the photograph). Fran loved the color red; Rebecca made her own jewelry. As a sign of unity, members of our rather large family wore handmade bracelets bearing two silver charms, Laugh and Love. The daffodil, spring's lovely harbinger, was the only flower in bloom at the fire scene. It is a flower that annually disappears into brown ruins, but it does return.
Fran and Rebecca were love and laughter to us. Fran's last actions, her final steps toward a daughter she loved, were the very heart of God: she would rather die with her daughter than live without her. And Rebecca was simply vibrant with laughter.
My leg and ankle will be fine, for now. There are different ways to limp, and there are many ways to be hobbled. Nothing lasts forever, even healing. But there is an assurance of things not seen that whispers in the quiet, the deep quiet. It is all I have.
Silence is a good thing. It is a gift. It is, in fact, inevitable. But the promise of a Great Noise, perhaps a trumpet blast or a choir of angels, or the welcoming laughter of a dear soul, is enough. Such is the daffodil of my days.
Peace.
(As spokesman for the family -- I speak for us all -- I declare this is our message: Please tell -- you know who -- that you love them. Tell them now. Please. You don't have time.)
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