Sayings of Ethan
I open a blank document, flexing my shoulders on the back of my office chair, then stretching my arms above my head, I ask, “Where does one begin?”
“Dad, you need a good hook!”
Last summer Ethan had read a draft of “My African Dream” and said, “Start with your long drive from South Africa through Matabeleland at night, where the dissidents were roaming the bush with AK-14 rifles!”
Many times, Ethan’s insights and words left me spellbound. Often, I joked with him, “One day I will write a book on the Sayings of Ethan.”
He gave me his, “Oh, really look.”
The dreadful irony of it––Pat and I happily wrote our memoirs, titled, “My African Dream,” and now in sorrow I could write “My American Nightmare.”
Looking at that ugly round paperweight next to his picture on my desk, I imagine it flying in the air. Swiftly, it strikes the stack of papers, tearing into them like a hungry cacodemon. It scatters fragments, floating in the air all around me, and my feelings, sharp as rotating sawblades, swirl about me, cutting away at my flesh, ever more deeply.
Oh, God, I wish to die!
Taking a deep breath, I shut my PC down, but I can’t stop the sense that I’m left to slowly bleed out. And a rage rises within me against the darkness, for though I’m surrounded on three sides by shelves full of thick books on theology, I can’t stop asking God one question: “WHY?”