Why?

Today the majority of my street gathered in the Notre Dame Catholic Church at the end of our block to grieve the loss of our dear friend and neighbor, Heidi Walsh. As anyone who knew me growing up would confirm, my street is extremely close knit. My oldest friends, the ones whose houses can be seen from my bedroom window, are also among my closest. There is a sense of vulnerability that comes from knowing a person since childhood, an honesty that masks any attempt to better or worsen your reputation. And, in the case of Waverly, Norfolk, and Chestnut, that vulnerability as led into undeniable trust and bondage.

So, when we were all reunited last night to tie ribbons on trees in Mrs. Walsh's memory (something we have done far too many times for far too many good and well-missed people), there was no shame in sadness. Mrs. Walsh's passing was tragic and horrible and so unexpected that even I, someone much less religious than I should be, felt drawn to seek god and pray tonight at Noter Dame. I wanted to put on my black dress and cry because there was nothing else I could do. I chose grief over what I was really feeling: guilt for being alive when someone so great was not and helplessness towards trying to lessen any of the pain in front of me.

Tonight, when my mother and I took our seats beside the families of two of my closest friends, she placed her hand on my leg and nudged at the young children sitting a few rows a head of us. "Poor kids," she whimpered through tears. "They don't even know what's going on. They don't even know why there here."

It's true, they didn't. Their youthful grins looked out of place beside their mothers' moist eyes. They twirls around in oblivion while the rest of us sat motionless in our pews. They were kids; they had no idea what they were doing in church on a Tuesday night.

But, really, does anyone? None of us - my mother, my teachers, my friends, my neighbors - understand what is going on. We don't know why we all have to meet so frequently under such unfortunate situations. We don't know what to do when these things happen (and god knows, on Waverly, they happen a lot). It doesn't matter how many people I hug or candles I light or times I tell my mother I love her, the truth of life's end will always be as foreign to me as a catholic mass.

I don't understand death. I don't understand why it comes so quickly to those who don't expect it and so slowly to those who suffer. I don't understand what I am supposed to do when it comes so close to me, when it takes people I know and love and care about and leaves me behind. I don't understand what I can do for the four children Mrs. Walsh will never see grow up, why I will see them tomorrow but she won't, why I will tell at my mother tomorrow and their kind words toward theirs was cut short. I don't understand how natural and predictable each breath is for me and still, no matter how harmless inhaling feels, how inevitable it is that each breath steals one from someone else. I am a child, twirling in church, so oblivious to what is happening and why it keeps happening. We all are.

So I sat between my mother and an old friend, acting like I knew which shoulder to cross first, pretending to know when to stand and when to sit, faking like I said "trespassers" and not "debtors" or "sinners." I thought that maybe, if I could make sense of the formula of catholic prayer I could make sense of its content. But none of that matters. None of this makes sense to anyone, no matter how young or old or religious or distant we all may be. There is no sense to be made of a death on Waverly. There is only guilt for still being alive.