pictures of the crash

8/9/2019 Pictures of the Crash

http://slidepdf.com/reader/full/pictures-of-the-crash 1/6

1

“Pictures of the Crash”

by Valerie Willman



3

This makes no sense. I ask my masters and teachers and guides and all of the

powers that be that I can think of. Is it important for me to know what happened at the

scene? There is no answer.

I slide the photos back in their own paper casket and put them back in the bottom

of the desk drawer under the box of envelopes and stationery. I lay down on the

carpeted floor, arms splayed out, looking at the palest of yellow ceilings. There are still

no tears. This has always concerned me -- my lack of tears for this great man I loved.

Still love.

In every other aspect of my life, I cry. Tears come easy to me, too easy, and I am

ashamed of falling apart in front of other people. Weeping embarrasses me. But

now, the one time I would not be humiliated to cry -- when tears are even expected -- I

can’t cry. Why?

Rob’s death was always my greatest fear. I knew with absolute certainty that if he

ever died I would rip my clothes and claw at my skin and scream. I would

institutionalize my grief in grey walls and padded rooms where nurses in white coats

and squeaky shoes would medicate my woes and I would swallow my bitter sadness with

two ounce paper cups. But it is nothing like what I thought. I am not reacting as I

imagined I would, nor as would seem proper.

Instead I walk with staring eyes grown too large for my face. I look at cracks in

walls and tell my two year old daughter that Daddy is far, far away and he can’t come

home. I try to breathe through the boulder squashing my lungs and wonder why I don’t

cry. My brain acknowledges that all people grieve in different ways, and that crying



5

I heave myself up from the carpet into a seated position . The baby swing sways

with a touch of my finger. Our infant son can never meet his daddy this time around. I

rub my face roughly with both hands and walk outside to the farthest corner of my yard.

The air is humid and warm after the air conditioning in the family room. Pereira

– Rob’s last name -- means “pear tree” in the Portuguese language. And so in

remembrance I have planted a pear tree to visit on days like these. The flowers and soft

grass beckon to me, moving me to wiggle my toes in the Summerness of the day.

Guilt lives inside me, like a tapeworm, sucking the zest out of my soul. I live a

constant battle of getting up in the morning alone, tending our children alone, feeling

guilty for not wanting to be alone anymore, and fighting that guilt – demanding a place

above it – a place of my own where I can breathe past the boulder on my chest.

I was not the cause of his accident. He was the one that fell asleep that night, not

me. And despite my request that he stay over in his own bed that night instead of going

back to the National Guard’s barracks at Cape Cod, it was he that decided to drive

anyway. And I knew with all of my being – even against the guilt and sense of betrayal

that mount my shoulders every time I think of it – that I am not meant to be alone and

live the rest of my life without a partner.

I’m so sorry you died, my love.

Pictures of the crash invade my peace and I wonder briefly if they will haunt me

at unfortunate times: while feeding our baby or waiting for sleep to descend. I smell the



6

leaves of his monument and touch one of them to my lips. The children will surely wake

soon and I want to be there when Aubrey toddles out of her yellow fairy room.

I know that Rob is in no pain where he is. He feels no sadness at what he is

missing in this place; he feels no anger or feelings of betrayal. I cannot hurt him with my

choices now. And my choice is to live. This is my purpose right now. To live and help my

children to live. To find joy and love again and help my children do the same. A warmth

rushes along my arms and I know that Rob wishes this, too.

“Obrigado, Roberto. I miss you.” I walk back to my new life with a hint of

promise in my steps, remembering the lyrics to a song we both loved: Live, laugh, love;

just for the day.

pictures of the crash

Documents