It’s a small, almost an insignificant word; yet it
means a great deal for a person who suffers from its everlasting effects when
one’s own death ends the pain and joy of reunion replaces it.
On this evening’s walk with the pups, I came across
two broken angel wings. They are made
from cheap glass and had the remains of cheap silver paint chipping off in
indiscriminate places. I didn’t find the
body.
Yesterday, while trying to think of a topic for a
blog—which I didn’t come up with—I came across one of those miniature species
of toads I suppose are common in deserts, such as the one I live in here in New
Mexico or even in Egypt.
Did you know in Egyptian hieroglyphics, the symbol of
a frog means “eternal, forever, continual, unending?” The old, kilt draped scribes put it on things
associated with dead bodies, whether they be people or sacrificial animals
carefully wrapped in linen. After drying
out the corpses for 70 days in a mixture of sand and natron, a type of salt and
soda mixture that occurs naturally in an arid climate, the wrapping process
came next. The old priests of the dead
marked the wrappings with spells to protect the bodies or to honor the gods the
animals were gifted; but they also added amulets of the “ankh” symbol—meaning “life,”
and little tiny frogs made out of semi-precious stones. People often associate the ankh with mummies,
but they don’t know about the frogs or toads.
Buster tried to nose the poor toad to death, and
when that failed he tried to eat it, but lost heart and let the poor amphibian
go—so in a sense, that toad found eternal life.
You might be thinking, “Weren’t frogs one of the ten
plagues of the Jewish Exodus? That means
frogs can’t be that great, right?” That
is a great question/ statement—you’re so smart.
Yes, toads/frogs were one of the first plagues that afflicted
those slave-driving Egyptians. Can you
imagine going into your kitchen, bedroom, garage and walking on thousands of
bodies of toads and frogs of all species?
The sound of a frog body being crunched under one’s sandals would want
me to free those pesky slaves right at that moment if I had been pharaoh. I don’t think the Egyptians saw the frogs and
thought, “Let’s have frog legs for dinner tonight.” I think they saw frog guts on the bottom of
their sandals and went, “Eeeyeuuuu!”
It might be that image that makes me not want to
order frog legs if I ever get to eat at a gourmet French restaurant.
A long time ago I watched one of the many versions of Law and Order, and the detective said as he hovered over a body that the plagues were mocking the Egyptian gods—basically, the Jewish God of the Bible was saying to the Egyptians, “I am the God of this Earth, not your Nile, not your pharaoh, and certainly not those little frogs you think will raise the dead. I do that. And if you don’t let my people go, I’ll show you death.”
Back to grief.
The last plague was the death of all the first born
of Egypt; the first born of a cow herder to the first born of the king of the
country. Even the first born of the Jews
would have felt the plague if they hadn’t painted lamb’s blood on their homes’ lintels
and doorposts. I don’t think I can
imagine the wailing of grief that could be heard from the Nile’s delta to the
river’s first cataract—a funny little word which means the river’s rapids,
which was not that much farther south than the great southern capital of
Thebes, or Uast, as the Egyptians called it.
I can’t imagine having one’s child die in one’s
arms. Thus I picked up those broken
angel wings, not in an attempt to locate their owner, but to remember, that all
who suffer grief never get over it.
The other day, I met Jack, an eighty year-old foot
doctor, who comes to the gardens every day to park his big red truck beside his
beloved wife’s grave. When I talked to
him about her, he began tearing up.
Although I’ve never seen them, I keep walking by
little Ethan’s grave, and there are usually new toys on his headstone—tonight there
were three new trucks and cars—small and poignant signs that his parents’ grief
still grips their hearts after three years without their “little worm.”
My own mother lost a child in 1959, my sister Naomi.
She had Downs and died of heart defects.
I asked momma once if she got over the little girl’s death. She looked at me as if I were an alien—which all
teenagers seem to be—then explained there wasn’t a day that didn’t go by without
her crying over that little baby she only held in her arms for six short months.
It’s been almost twenty years since momma died. I don’t cry over her everyday anymore. I like to tell mom-stories, would tell them
every day if someone would listen to me tell one. While I did, perhaps now and again, I’d tear
up like Dr. Jack. On special occasions,
perhaps after watching a touching movie, I’ll sob as if she died a few minutes
earlier. Once I went through half a box
of tissues after watching Amy Tan’s “The Joy-Luck Club.” (It was also one of the last books my mother
read and told me I should read—it wasn’t a suggestion—it was one of those
commands mothers give their children that sounds like “You better eat all those
beans, young lady, or else…!” Yes, I
read it.)
Grief.
It’s a strange physical and psychological
disorder. One day you seem able to cope
with the condition; the next day, you have all the symptoms: damp eyes, runny mucus, discolored face and uncontrollable
spasms of the body.
I can’t wait until I no longer suffer from this
disease, and it’s replace with the joy of reunion on the other side, where, if
I know my mother, she’s wondering why I let Buster molest that poor frog in the
first place.
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