I love my job. I have been a policeman for 14 years and am incredibly proud of our work to protect and serve the community. But there is one task that I dread, should it ever happen: having to tell parents that their beloved son or daughter has been killed. I told my sergeant this way back and he said there is no easy way. But I think that I found one. I will try to explain how, by sharing with you what is now running through my mind.
It was a cold and blustery day, the remnants of near empty clouds evident from scattered puddles reflected in the dim light of another evening. Except that it wasn’t just another evening: I had to tell Mr and Mrs Castle that they had lost their dear daughter. I had seen the body and was sure that I would not be describing it to them. In due time, they would see it too, and I wanted to lessen the blow.
I knocked on their front door and waited. Soft steps approached and the door opened.
“Good evening officer, to what do we owe the pleasure?”. Gentle words, actually, reflecting our positive standing in the community. I very much hoped to reciprocate. I smiled and accepted their invitation to enter.
“I met your lovely daughter today”, I began, before I had even sat down, far less before I had sipped their welcoming cup of tea. “In fact,”, I said, “we had a lovely chat, for quite a while. May I share it with you, is that alright?” – but I was going to do it anyway and, well, there they both were, primed on their comfy sofa as I launched – well, ventured – into sharing my unearthly chat – unearthly, yes. But they didn’t know. But they would.
“Her name is Sarah, isn’t it?” I asked, not really a question and of course I didn’t say “wasn’t it?”.
“Sarah told me about the wonderful time she’s been having. I will tell you why she was sharing this with me a bit later – because that was the first thing that occurred to me too but, you must hear about our special time first – yes? Well, she told me that she had changed into some simple clothes, translucent, and she met some people whom she hadn’t seen for quite some time. There was some delightful music too – heavenly really, she said – and it was the kind that was always present, like one’s breath or pulse. She had never heard such comforting music before, comforting yet so alive. She never wanted it to end.”
I could tell that the parents were looking a bit mystified, relaxed but in an unsettled way, as you might be when riding a bus, but you’d asked the driver to tell you where to get off.
When was this story going to ‘get off’?
“Sarah was deep into a conversation with one old friend, recollecting times together, when she realised there was something strange: nothing took any time. “I would convey something to her”, she said, “and immediately I knew her response. And the funny thing was that it seemed perfectly natural. “But before she thought any more about it, she met another friend. “Who is this?”, she had pondered, but then she remembered. “Of course,” she was saying, “I met her in Australia. So, then we chatted for a while and there was so much to say. What about that time we toured the outback and almost ran out of food? I was so scared that I might have to eat one of those delightful koalas.” And as before, sharing between them took no time at all. It all happened in an instant.
There were a few more sharing’s and I related them as best – as faithfully and patiently – as I could to Sarah’s dear parents, they are hanging on every word. But I gradually noticed a change: their posture had begun to slump; they were looking undeniably sad.
And then I told them. They were still seated, looking quite glum and I said without warning:
“Sarah has a new home now. She has died. She has been welcomed by her family and friends who left before her. She seems happy, but I know that you are not. Mr and Mrs Castle, I am so very sorry.”
And then, something rather wonderful happened. We all got up simultaneously, acknowledged each other with a sad smile and embraced in a collective hug. It must have lasted a minute. Tears were shed in abundance.
At last, I provided the formalities about seeing their daughter’s body and so on, and then I left. Dignity had been preserved. Human feelings had been respected. And life must go on.
My shoes met the damp pavement as I headed home.
…….
© DS 20 Nov 2021
Dahlan Simpson
