Fatal Mistake

On Thursday evening, my husband was driving home from his parent’s house. When he got to the entrance of our neighborhood, he found fire trucks, police cars, and evidence of a pretty horrible accident. A medical helicopter waited in the parking lot of a nearby church, and traffic was stopped in both directions of the three lane road that runs in front of our neighborhood. He had to turn around, cut through another neighborhood, and wait to turn into the other entrance to where we live. Before he turned, he could see that the accident involved a motorcycle, and that things weren’t looking too good. He asked another driver near him what had happened, and found out that a car had hit a motorcycle, leaving the biker in pretty bad shape. He, understandably, was a bit freaked out when he got home. We distracted ourselves with television, and pretended to not hear the helicopter fly away.

The next morning, when I took my daughters to camp, we could see the evidence of the accident on the road in front of the entrance. There were spray paint markings all over the place, left by officers who tried to visualize what had happened. Skid marks were in the lanes in both directions, and there were other stains. My husband said it was most likely car oil that had leaked out. One of the stains didn’t look like car oil; it looked like road kill, that unmistakable rust colored smear on asphalt. It was nauseating to see.

We checked the papers and listened to the news to see what had happened, but did not find out anything for the first day after the accident. Other people did find out though, because that afternoon, there was the start of a shrine on the street, spelled out in spray paint. RIP, it said. We love you, it said. And, even more unfortunately, Rest with the angles. Now on top of being nauseated by the road stain and horrified knowing that someone had died at the entrance to my neighborhood, I was also disgusted with myself for being amused by someone’s crappy spelling.

The next morning, a small article was in the paper. It reported that a young man in his twenties had tried to pass a car in the median and was hit by a girl, also in her twenties, who pulled out into the median at the same time. He was flown to the hospital and later died of his injuries, unless he really died right there on the street and they didn’t want us to know that. The article also said that they couldn’t tell if he had been wearing a helmet. What did that mean, anyway? That he didn’t have a helmet on, or that his head was so badly mangled that they couldn’t tell if he had one on or not. He was twenty-three. She was twenty-four. He was more at fault that she was. The median is not a passing lane, but you still have to check and double check to make sure you have the right of way. He was twenty-three. She is twenty-four. She will live with that memory for the rest of her life. He is dead.

In addition to the article in the paper, the street itself told the story. His name spray painted in the road. More declarations of love and loss covered the street. One couple parked their motorcycle near the sign for our neighborhood and stood by the place where their loved one had died. My daughter S commented that neither of the mourners wore helmets.

The next day, Sunday, was Father’s Day. The man’s obituary appeared in the paper that day. More spray paint appeared in the road. I couldn't read it clearly while waiting to leave the neighborhood, and I also couldn’t imagine when these people were finding the time and the road empty enough to graffiti their tribute.

Today the road-side memorial progressed to the brick wall of another neighborhood. Finally some flowers had also appeared on the side of the road. The deceased’s Masonic involvement has been reflected in the street as well, and the symbol is so well done it had to involve a stencil well over four feet long. A giant triangle of red covers both lanes. The pain this person’s friends and family are suffering is abundant.

I am sorry for the death that occurred at the entrance of our neighborhood. He was a young man, and he made some poor choices, and those choices cost him his life. But this was not the Oklahoma City bombing. This was not the destruction of the World Trade Center. What happened to a tasteful cross, a teddy bear, and some artificial flowers? Do we really have to deface an entire street and a nearby brick wall? Isn’t it enough that the police or fire fighters or tow trucks didn’t think to clean the blood off the road? Seeing that smear on the road every time I turn in and out of the neighborhood is a pretty in your face reminder. Do I need to have the visual assault of graffiti as well? Since when did mourning become such a public affair?

It would be nice, however, if the daily additions could stop, because I am getting a little tired of having to discuss it with my children at least twice a day as we leave and return home. My children, who, by the way, have less sympathy than I do. They think very concretely. He didn’t wear a helmet. He did something illegal. He died. Stop messing up the street. I try to explain to them how people are in pain, how they miss him and want to find a way to express their grief. They don’t think they should have to look at all that grief, like his spilled blood, all over the road. They want to call the police. They want to stop the daily spray paint additions to the shrine. I too want it to stop. It makes coming and going from home feel tainted, like we are all to blame just because of where we live.

People die all the time. Can you imagine what the world would look like if we all spelled out our loss, incorrectly, on every spot where death occurred?