| Family Tragic Loss Handbook |
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by Michael Salisbury |
What do you tell him when all signs point to her being buried under the rubble of a bridge? The Family Tragic Loss Handbook tells you to talk slowly. So you do. It doesn’t tell you what to say to a man when he is crying, sobbing, and his breathing is labored, heavy like his thick hands and round waist. It doesn’t cover large men crying.
You are here because the call came in for tragedy volunteers to assist the families and you are a volunteer. You are here to help the grieving, to place a hand on his large shoulder, but to never hold his hand. Never give him something to clutch that will be taken away from him.
What the handbook does say to do is provide comfort. Tell him to calm down, which is easy and cheap because they are only words you say, but they provide nothing of substance. He’s rubbing his hands together as if there is a fire near to warm them by. He starts rubbing his wedding band as if it is her. By all accounts she is crushed or drowned. Which is worse?
You try not to think about that now as he explains the details of their life: how long they were married, how many kids they have, where she worked. Is she really dead? Is there any hope, he asks you. The handbook says to be indifferent to questions of hope. So you are.
There is an interstate bridge that hours before roared with rush hour traffic before it collapsed tossing cars, trucks and buses into the river. This is why you are here. You signed up as a volunteer never expecting to volunteer. It just looks good on a resume. People smile when you tell them you do it. Now you have this man whose wife is dead. The handbook doesn’t cover authenticity. He continues to sweat even though he is far from underneath the bridge, mumbling through tears.
He keeps telling you how great she was: intelligent and friendly. He tells you how great her faith in God was. The handbook tells you to speak in present tense no matter how grim the outlook is. No matter how bad the bridge looks. Never speak of people as though they are gone. So you don’t. You say sure she is. You tell him everything will be all right.
He asks if it will be and you don’t know.
What you do know is it is Wednesday and a horrible day to die, a horrible day to provide someone with the hope that their wife is alive, to provide support for those who are left, to read from a handbook given to you after a two-hour seminar held at a hotel with large ceilings and carpet that is acceptable only in hotel lobbies. You know you are not helping anyone but yourself through this event. You know that time moves like this river and not even a collapsed bridge can stop it moving past you and through you like so many souls reaching and stretching up and away.
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Michael Salisbury makes his home in Grand Rapids, Michigan, where he is a contributing editor for DIAGRAM. He is currently pursuing a M.A. in English from Grand Valley State University. His writing has appeared in Black Warrior Review.
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