DARKNESS AT THE EDGE OF DAWN
by Andrew Williams

Last night, I was remembering some of the days of my life when I wasn't
there for those who loved me. Like how I wasn't there for my mother when
she got her college diploma, after working so hard for so many decades
just to get to where she could take the time off to go to college. And I
wasn't there when my parents had to take our pet cat Smokey to be put to
sleep.

I remember nights, the year I was 17, the awfullest year of my life, that
I couldn't sleep. Hour of the wolf nights. There were a lot of them that
year. I'd come upstairs and I'd sit in Grandma Hilda's rocking-chair, and
be as quiet as possible so as not to wake everyone in the house. (My
mother, father and brother all had their bedrooms upstairs. When I was 14,
I requested that my room be moved downstairs. It was my way to escape my
family without actually having to go out and get a job or take some
responsibility.)

So I'd sit there, in the dark, unmoving, paralyzed emotionally and
physically. And Smokey--who even then was old for a cat--would slowly
climb up onto the chair and into my lap. Usually I'd lean forward in the
chair to make it easier for her. And we'd sit together, sometimes until
dawn, keeping each other company. But I wasn't there when that long black
cloud came for her, when the veterinarian slipped the needle through her
gray fur and gently eased her out of what had become a life of pain.

There are compensations. Life can be merciful that way. My mother and I
got much closer in the years before her final bout with cancer, and I was
honored to be at her bedside when she died. And I treat every pet I
meet--at least I try--with kindness and patience. But memory won't let
your conscience be eased so easily. Every time I think of Smokey, I cry
and ask her forgiveness for not being there at her dying time. And every
time I dream or think about my mother, I ask her forgiveness as well.

So why wasn't I there? You'll love this.

I was depressed. Clinical depression. And many depressed people sleep a
lot. So I wouldn't get out of bed. I wouldn't get out of bed for my
mother's proudest moment. I wouldn't get out of bed to help Smokey--my
boon companion on so many lonely nights--face the Grim Reaper in loving
hands.

You can take whatever object lesson you like from this essay, whether
obvious or subtle. Or none at all. All I can really say is that as good a
person as I am now--and I still need lots of work--I wouldn't give two
nickels for what I used to be. Even knowing the density and composition of
the dark cloud I labored under, I'd be hard-pressed to keep from spitting
in my own face. Self-forgiveness is a slow master.

I don't know how much karmic weregild I've yet to pay for this life. All I
can do is keep working to make sure I never, ever regress to being that
sad, self-hating, life-hating and fearing man-child. Because, as Harlan
Ellison once wrote at the close of an essay, "There are worse ways to live
than dying."


Copyright 2003 by Andrew Williams. Free to use with attribution.