True Tales

I step out the front door to take a walk, my second one of the day. I never walk twice but something tells me to get out and drink in the last bit of daylight. I notice how happy I feel just breathing deep and swinging my arms. The winter light fades quickly and soon I head back. I want to be home before dark.

As I round the corner and approach my house I see two police cars with flashing lights. Then I notice the street is blocked off. I blink, look again, and realize there are actually twelve squad cars surrounding my house. Officers are in the street, on the sidewalk and in my driveway.

Neighbors are huddled together looking somber and scared. A scrap of bright yellow cuts across my peripheral vision. When I focus it becomes scene of the crime tape slicing across my yard. Above me a war-like racket announces the presence of a helicopter circling the area. I have entered an alternate reality. Is this a war zone or the peaceful front yard I walked out of thirty minutes ago? I stand across the street anonymously looking at the scene, hesitant to move closer and identify myself as someone connected to all this. Finally I inhale, step off the curb and approach a policeman wearing Bermuda shorts. He seems to be directing traffic.

 “I live in this house,” I tell him. He stares at me awhile. I wonder if he will speak to me. 

“Someone’s been shot in the backyard,” he says at last. “Did you see anything?  Did you hear gunshots?”

“I‘ve just returned from a walk,” I say. He turns his back and walks away.

A woman approaches and stands next to me. Our eyes meet and I see anger and fear in her face. I know she is seeing the same in mine.

“I heard the shots”, she says. “They were really loud, and really close. I looked out the back window and saw two men running in your yard. One guy was shooting. The other guy fell down and then the shooter ran off. I called 911 and went out to see if I could help the guy on the ground. We spoke. He told me he was shot in the chest. It seemed like forever until the police came. When they got here he was dead.”

The woman who tells me all this is my next-door neighbor. These are the first words we have ever shared and it is the first time she has been in my yard. As I stand next to her and take in what has happened I realize the shooting must have been a few minutes after I left for my walk. Some guardian angel had whisked me away—out of sight, out of hearing, and definitely away from the back yard. In the midst of all this violence I was wrapped in a cocoon of protection.

Hours later I sit on my couch, inhabiting a slice of reality that is miraculously removed. I am focused within reviewing pieces in my writing journal and the part of me that is watching myself is amazed that I can feel so calm and serene. Outside the crime team is doing their job - digging up bullets, taking photos and searching for evidence. Conversations filter through my window and occasionally there is laughter. To me it is surreal. To them it is business as usual. The investigation continues until about midnight and then a detective knocks on my door.

 “We’re all done now,” he says. “We’re leaving. You’ve got your yard back.”

 It is quiet again - but not peaceful. Violent death is a presence. Why did that boy run full speed against our locked gate, splintering the wood, and pushing his way through? I can’t imagine what had compelled him to seek out this place to live his last moments.

For weeks and months afterwards he is never far from my mind and constantly in my prayers. I hope that his soul will find peace. He has died at my doorstep and somehow I feel we are linked. It is a tumultuous period for me. I am bombarded by emotion. Waves of shock, anger and fear crash through my body. “Why me?” I shout to the universe. “Why did you pick my house to make this happen?”

Eventually I come to feel blessed. I have a sense that because I have prayed for him I have been able to serve his soul. And so at last I know I was honored. By dying in my yard he has let me touch him in a way I never could have in life.