It Finally Hit Me
by ExTank
Tuesday, 4 February, 2003.
6:15 P.M. CST, Irving, Texas
The Parking Lot, North Lake College
I had arrived over an hour early for class, but instead of going inside and cracking a book, I sat in my car facing the dwindling light of just another workday. I was enjoying a cigar and nursing a hot cup of coffee to ward off the encroaching chill of evening while the soft strains of the Lagoon Waltz played on WRR.
The sun's rays had faded enough so that everything poking above the near horizon was mostly just a silhouette, cast into sharp relief against a pale sky and a few orange-pink clouds off in the distance.
A subtle movement caught my eye. Across Walnut Hill, in front of a mid-sized, nondescript office building, a flag fluttered in the light evening breeze; fluttered at half-mast. As it lifted and swirled momentarily, the thin fabric allowed the last remnants of daylight to pass through it, and I could just barley discern the pattern, but not the colors, of Old Glory.
I was suddenly seized by a great sadness, a grief so overwhelming that it felt as if my abdomen had suddenly disappeared and that gravity was now trying to tug my heart right out of my chest and onto my lap.
In that moment I finally realized, beyond mere mental acknowledgment of an unpleasant datum, that just four days ago and almost directly overhead (as such things are measured at 12,000+ m.p.h.) seven astronauts, seven people had died.
My eyes brimmed over, and I tried to blink back my tears of grief, but it was a futile attempt. Silently I sat there with the sweet strains of Strauss in my ears, the chill early evening breeze upon my face, the rich aroma of hot coffee in my nostrils and its savory bitterness upon my tongue, as hot, salty tears flowed over and down my cheeks.
No blubbering, no sobs, no anguished cries. Just sweet, silent grief, as stark as the silhouettes of the dead branches of the trees in front of me, thrusting skyward against a darkening sky.
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The sun is down, and streetlights begin flickering on. My cigar is out, my coffee has cooled, my tears have dried, and my grief has subsided to something manageable. Another waltz is playing on the radio, but I no longer enjoy the smooth, lilting strains. I crave something dark. Something sad, to bookend my experience with. Perhaps something Russian.
I must go to class now.
Posted 2/5/03