Across the street from my childhood home lived a family whose dad sold tires and other equipment for heavy machinery, right from the yard. One winter day their son Michel was crushed by one of the vehicles. He was five, I was 7.
The visitation took place in the family home. I went with my friend Denise who lived next-door (those of you persevering enough to have read all the blog postings will have been introduced to Denise in ‘A Lucky Friendship’).
I had accepted Denise’ invite largely out of curiosity. I did not grasp what had occurred, but I had noticed the adults around me spoke in hushed undertones about the event, which meant it had to be something important and interesting.
Denise and I walked up the steps and entered directly into the front room. It was small, dim and still. Two family members stood near the door, immobile and saying nothing. Someone opened a door which led from the rest of the house to see who had arrived. I could hear a keening sound that I knew was beyond any crying I had heard in my life. The door was shut again.
The casket lay on a table. Denise walked over, knelt for a few minutes, crossed herself, walked back and gave me a nudge. I followed her example and knelt in front of the casket.
It was the first time I had seen the dead body of a person I had known. It was utterly clear to me that what I was looking at was not Michel, and it was not a person. It was the first time I was gripped by the vacuum left by death. It was the first time I would be left harrowed by the question, Where has the person gone?