My Buddy-My Heart

My momma held me as the car's back seat began to seem very small. The world stopped, but only for a moment. The words were slow and sounded oddly warped as she struggled to get them out through her sobs. Who was dead? No, Uncle Ed was hurt badly but would recover. Was that correct? My focus was fuzzy as my thoughts reverted to my young Uncle, my heart, my buddy. Charles Glenn had to be okay. He was only 17. He was my uncle, even though he was a few months younger. Only 17, no one ceases to be at 17! We were both 17!

The beat of my heart told me he had to be okay. Why was momma so callus? Her eyes were swollen and red, and the urge to shake her so she made some sense left me and was replaced by sheer terror. There were screams. The loud and guttural NO, NO, NO was an echo that bounced back and forth and created a pressure that my skull found almost unbearable. The screams had to belong to someone. But who? A flash of truth and a gut punch…those sounds were from me.

Was the car's back seat smaller than before? My hands were placed on the seats, one on the back of the front seat and one on the rear seat. They were too close for me to breathe as my screams became less and less human. Momma attempted to hold me, but we both fought an unseen enemy. But she was cruel, and she was wrong. He was only 17, he was my best buddy, and he was not dead. No sense could be made. Too young, too loved, too perfect.

The memory of what followed was cloudy, and a fog enveloped my thoughts. Emergency… a red glow was the color of blood. Why would they do that? The entry, the cold, the smell of alcohol overwhelmed me, and then all became gray as my focus wavered—words from a doctor whose concern was apparent as he spoke. The sentences were broken…Younger brother DOA…Older…Can't say…Hope for recovery,…The next 24 hours, and then all went black.

Startled awake, for a moment, my thoughts were of a bad dream, but one look at my momma's face told me all there was to know. No dream, no hope, my best buddy had ceased to be. My other Uncle was touch and go. Concerns for Uncle Ed were there, but the sense of loss overwhelmed me so much that he was an afterthought. Regret for what appeared to be a lack of concern haunts me today and may haunt me forever, as years later, he too ceased to be, as the thought of that loss, of that event, became too much to endure. A sad story for another day.

Days later, we found Uncle Ed out of danger but bedfast. The future held a long, though doubtful recovery. Therefore, he could not be present for the customary show of sorrow: the funeral. The church was full of students from our school. My heart beat almost out of my chest as my gaze was focused on the open casket surrounded by flowers, so many flowers. Flowers he would never be able to enjoy.

My legs would not take me forward to observe the empty shell that was once a flamboyant young man full of hope and joy. My momma took my hand to lead me forward, and that hand was slapped and pushed away from me. She repeatedly reached out and grasped at my reluctant hand. Once she made contact, she almost dragged me toward the casket because she thought that was a show of respect. Respect for who, respect for what? Why do the devout feel we must observe a hollow, empty vessel that was once a person? A perverse ceremony of the devoted, to say the least.

Momma drug me close enough to see what used to be my best buddy, my heart, my love. However, as memory served, that was not my Uncle. That was someone else. They had made an error. That body, that puffy face, and the odd look about the closed eyes was another person altogether. The words would not form to alert my momma. They had made the gravest of errors. Charles Glen was not the occupant of that casket. A person unknown to me lay there.

A joy swept over my body. Charles Glen was hurt somewhere, and maybe a head wound caused a loss of memory. He would show up and shock all the mourners and show them how wrong they all were to accept the death of one so young. He would show them. He was always the prankster, but my sweetheart of an Uncle had gone too far, and when he showed up, my anger would be unleashed after a heartfelt hug, of course. He was okay and would return soon; that was apparent. Why couldn’t someone else see the truth?

The rest of the funeral went by as a blur, but my tears had stopped because there was no reason to shed them for someone unknown to me. He would be found safe and sound, and everyone there would feel dupped as they had been led to mourn a stranger. All was morose, but only for those mourners who refused to see the truth.

At 17, the hope of my Uncle, who would appear soon full of energy and was not the occupant of that tacky casket, seemed completely probable. Yes, he was just a casualty of a lost memory or a poorly executed prank, not death, as so many thought to be the case. But they were not as close as we were. What morons! That shell of a body bore no resemblance to my Uncle, none whatsoever.

The same dream entered my thoughts for years when darkness fell, and sleep came. My body was transported to the church. Entry to that church only occurred when dreams overtook my thoughts. My refusal to enter that church or any church after the funeral caused my parents great concern. But why would anyone return to a place that perpetuated the most cruel of falsehoods?

My dreams were always the same: the casket was before me, and my form gazed at the body that was not my Uncle. Then, a hand touched my shoulder. Charles Glenn stood there, arms outstretched to hug me, but the arms made no contact when they closed around me. My Uncle's arms went through my body, and no sense of touch was felt. Startled, my sleep was suspended by my sobs. Sleep became a dreaded part of my days as the hope that Charles Glenn's death was an error made by people not close enough to know that the shell of a body, the occupant of that casket, was not the person we all knew and loved. Gradually, though, my hope began to fade.

The dream came to me for years and gradually faded as my hope evaporated. Today, at 72, the memory of a boy too young to cease to be now rarely haunts my dreams, but the love, always there, never lost, endures.