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A boy and his dog

Contributed by: Erin Di Paolo on 5/10/2006

It was an ordinary day during recess at Omar D. Blair Charter School. One hundred and twenty pesky second graders were running, jumping, skipping, and wiping their runny noses on their sleeves.

One of my favorite students approached me with a stomach ache. Of course, it could not wait! He absolutely had to go to the nurse and now! As I bent down to retrieve a nurse pass from my fanny pack that rested on a rock, I watched a crowd gather. Not your ordinary crowd, mind you. But a rabid pack of second graders, zeroing in.

I don't know what it is, but kids have instant radar when something is amiss with other kids. As I clutched the pass, I shooed the kids away with my right arm, as if to say, "Go away." It's a universal signal, after all. Surely they would get the drift. Surely not.

Out of the corner of my eye, I spotted Kadriel. Sweet, precious, Kadriel. I shooed him away, just as I had done with his peers moments earlier.

He did not budge nor did he bat an eye. I peered up at him. He had tears running down his cheeks. I thought for a moment, ok, what could it be this time? No one wants to play with him? Someone pushed him down? Someone said he had a weird nose, face, chin....fill in the blank. But no, this time it was different.

"My dog died," he whimpered, before I even had the chance to ask what was wrong.

Kids are so transparent and so unguarded. Oh, no, I thought to myself. What do I say? I hugged him, telling him how truly sorry I was for his loss. And I was, I really was, with all of my being.

For an instant, I thought about all I had lost in recent months. But this was not about me. I reached over and pulled Kadriel close; he did not pull back from my grasp. Instead, he pressed his tear-stained, runny-nosed face into my stomach and he stayed there.

I felt uneasy. Why does raw, unbridled emotion scare us so? I told him that I had recently lost a dog myself, that I knew how painful it could be.

"My heart is broken," he whispered. I looked up at him, tears in my eyes, and said, "Mine is, too." This encounter took place on a Friday.

On Monday, I had another visit with Kadriel. We talked, again, on the playground during recess. I checked to see how he was coming along with the 12 stages of grief - or however many there are. I can't remember. All he could tell me was that he was still sad.

He said, "I just want my dog back."

Who in the world, at one time or another, has not felt this way, I thought to myself. Who has felt absolutely no desire to have the lost item replaced with something or someone else, but to have the exact item back, just the way it was. I can think of so many things I'd like to have back....

The very next day I was sitting at the computer at work, writing in my online journal. My co-worker Zonieke looked at me and, out of the blue, said, "I wish I had my granny back."

Zonieke's maternal grandmother passed away a little over a year ago and she still profoundly feels the loss. It was what I had just been writing, at that very moment, in my journal, about all of us feeling this way at one time or another.

It might not be a person that has died; sometimes it's a dream or a relationship. Sometimes it's innocence. Sometimes it can even be an entire way of life that has gone, never to return. And sometimes it can be a negative thing in our life that needs to go, yet we cling to it, kicking, screaming, willing it with our last breath to stay. "Don't go," we plead, "We must have you to make it."

But anyone that has lived, say 13 years or more, knows that life goes on. It always has...and it always will, until one day it no longer does.

We grieve, yet we go on. Some choose not to, but most trudge along, day by day, until it gets easier or more tolerable to live on this planet. Kadriel, at his very young, tender age is learning this.

I checked in with him again today, almost two weeks after his dog died. I looked at him with a look he has come to recognize as my concerned look. I didn't have to say a word; he knew what I was thinking.

"I'm doing okay," he said. "But I still miss my dog."

I tell him, it's alright, you probably always will. I give him permission to feel the emotions; it is so very important to do so, I think. He gives me a shrug, a pensive smile, and walks inside.

Months go by and life - and grief - continue.

My daughter's third-grade teacher gets the phone call she has been waiting for, yet dreading. Death gains the upper hand once again. Or so it seems. Mrs. Croci lost her maternal grandmother today.

Once again, I am instantly reminded of the brevity of life, how it is so fleeting. So fleeting that we should not waste one moment on things that will not make a hill of beans (as my mother says) tomorrow.

Mrs. Croci said two profound things on this day. First, she said that it happened so quickly, that her grandmother had been fine just a short time ago. She also said that even though she felt bad for herself at the loss of a grandparent, that she felt worse for her mom, who has now lost both parents in less than a year. Both parents in less than a year....loss is all around us. One does not have to look far to find it.

But on the flipside, one does not have to look far to find ways to minister to or encourage others in their loss. Right now, my daughter and I are going to the store to buy a plant and a card for Mrs. Croci. And when we see her, we will hug her and tell her we are here for her. And we will mean it. And tomorrow, I will check in with Kadriel again and see how he is doing. And I will give Zonieke a hug when I see her. Like I said, there are a multitude of opportunities to minister. We have but to open our eyes.


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Showing 1 of 1 comments
Submitted By: TAMMY LOPEZ
posted on 6/21/2006 @ 2:42:46 PM
(Not Rated)
Great story, you keep getting better and better! Tammy
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CONTRIBUTOR INFORMATION

Erin Di Paolo

Denver , CO

Erin Di Paolo has posted 61 stories and 6 comments since joining on 3/18/2006. Erin Di Paolo 's average story rating is 4.81.
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