Several brown chickens and a few white geese have been my neighbors for years. They live together in harmony at a house up the hill from my home. They’re up early and spend the better part of most days outside. The geese sun and float in a baby pool, and the chickens peck about the yard. We greet one another in the mornings when I run by. “Hello chickens, hello geese,” I think to myself and sometimes say aloud.
Their owners—my other neighbors—tend to their garden, work on their boat, and play in the yard with their grandkids. They mostly keep to themselves but they’re friendly. They pass by my window in the evenings from time to time with their big dog, Benny. And many mornings when I pass by their house, they’re outside too. We exchange pleasantries and brief hellos across chicken wire. Benny barks. The chickens peck. The geese float by.
***
I don’t recall the finest details of the first time we met. But 25 years later, the broad strokes are clear. He was tall and warm—a mountain of a man. His home was dimly lit with an amber glow. He had light eyes, a broad nose, thinning hair, a crooked smile, and a tuft of facial hair beneath his bottom lip. I’m certain he hugged me—a big-ole bear hug—then welcomed me inside.
I was astounded by the things I saw. Logos. Pictures. Relics. A guitar. And so much of his own artwork. He showed us around with a hint of pride and spoke freely and easily. His home was a pop culture museum but better. I wanted the tour to go on forever. Every detailed mattered. Every corner held a wonder to behold.
I can count on my hands the number of times I’ve seen him since, yet his mark was indelible. He was always so kind. In the years that followed, he became we. One, then two. Three, then four, then five. Still his home—their home—inspired. It was warm and thick with love.
***
Fall sports began in winter, seeped into spring, and three young girls—two of 14 and one of 16—earned starting spots on the JV volleyball team. I never met them, but when I consider my own kids, I can imagine what life looked like before and after practice. Perhaps the youngest slept until the online school day began, then she attended class from bed. Perhaps the oldest woke up early, made breakfast, and showered before she sat down at her computer. And maybe the middle Snapped the others on breaks and after school. They probably stayed up late. Maybe they were out of shape after a year away from the volleyball court. But even though they complained—as most teenage girls do—I suspect they were thrilled to be back.
***
She did her shopping at roughly the same time each week—on Monday afternoons. After the weekend she spent the morning cleaning, dropped off recycling, picked up flowers, then donned her mask and entered the store. She always started in produce and grabbed a bunch of bananas first. Then she weaved in and out of aisles, lingering and grateful for the excuse to escape. Her town was small enough that invariably she ran into a familiar face—in produce, in the deli, in the parking lot. Groceries always cost more and took longer than expected.
***
The day before her shopping trip—Sunday—was overcast. The clouds were full and hung low. The morning was damp and cool, perfect for a long run.
My legs felt heavy and slow as I heaved up the hill. A little slower than normal, I felt far from my body. But as I approached the gentle bend in the road, I came to. I noticed commotion, flying feathers and flapping wings. The chickens were squabbling, the cars were gone, and Benny was nowhere in sight.
“What the hell is going on?” I wondered as I climbed the hill. I turned my head, double-tapped my earbud, and slowed to see what the fuss was about. And then, just beyond the chicken wire, I saw.
***
In the space between two Mondays, the cancer in his throat that had spread to his liver stole him and took him away. The three girls did what young girls do, but then they lost control. They rounded a corner, tore through trees, and died on the scene. A white goose covered in blood lay just outside the baby pool. A second with a broken neck floated inside. A dead chicken lay near a plant bed, and another labored to breathe just beside it. A slithering mink wrestled a screaming goose as the loud crowd of chickens backed into a corner. And a young man walked into a grocery store and opened fire.
Why? How does one deal with a predator who trespasses and plays by a different set of rules? Who steals, kills, destroys, and connives in the most cowardly of ways. Who overtakes the unarmed and unsuspecting, then refuses to relent once he’s won. What does one do when terrible things happen to wonderful people for no good reason? Then what? When there’s nowhere to run, nowhere to hide, and no way to escape. When “there’s nothing we can do,” and prayers are insufficient to keep the most precious from slipping away. What then?
I’ve been staring at these unanswered questions for an hour. Looking for resolution that I can’t find. My head hurts. My heart hurts. And there’s nothing more to say. There’s no way to reason with the unreasonable.
It’s unreasonable.
So I put my head back. Take a deep breath. Close my eyes. Rest here a while. And let the tears fall.
