A Mother's Work Is Never Done

I propped my shotgun on the headstone of my son's grave as the night's wind turned cold and snatched leaves off trees. I pulled deeper into my coat and slid slowly to the ground.

"Babe," I said to him, "a child is not supposed to die before his mother."

The graveyard was on a hill, and it overlooked the town center below. The monuments of the dead towered above the municipal buildings of the living.

Was it a sacrilege or homage to open a bottle of bourbon over the burial ground of my son? I poured two fingers of gold into a glass, raised it in a toast, and downed what had to be my last drink for a while.

"You died with honor, son. Saved lives at that elementary school. You were a rookie in the Sheriff's department, but your courage has your team singing your praises."

I dropped the empty glass and the recapped bottle, laid facedown on the mound, and cradled freshly packed dirt. I sent tendrils of love deep down, around, and into the coffin, trying to re-womb my child.

"Son, you'll be meeting up with Elvira Wiggins, the teacher who helped you guide panicked babies out the back door of a gym. Mrs. Wiggins asked about you before she passed, told me she was praying you'd recover.

"You took a bullet to the head. She took one beneath the heart. This senseless violence left both our families wounded.

"Mr. Wiggins walks around like a zombie. He's got three kids under twelve mourning their mother's death, so I'm hoping he'll come out of his widower's fog soon.

"Of course, you know your father's a wreck–even worse than when I divorced him. Our world of gun-toting peacemakers was always too much for your social worker father. I promise, baby, I'll do whatever I can to help him–after I find the man who killed you and got away."

My hands clawed dirt.

"Your murderer's partner-in-crime took the coward's way out–shot himself when SWAT cornered him. He escaped us."

I lost control of my rage. I felt my boots shatter the empty glass and half-empty bottle that I first opened outside a liquor store. A shard pierced my denim. I savored the corporeal pain. My rage cooled.

"I flew in from Beirut as soon as I got news from your father that you were shot and lying in a hospital bed. Rode on a US Air Force jet. The military takes care of its own. My captain even said prayers for you."

Ice crystallized on the dirt. I could taste both.

"I am so proud of you, Gabriel. My Child–A Peace Officer. The whole town paid you tribute. Parked your county SUV in front of the school, covered it with banners and flowers."

I inhaled the air of the last resting place of my son, then exhaled, rolled over and sat on the cold mound. Rain started as a drizzle and grew into a torrent. Streams on the headstone reflected colors from the signal light below in the town center. As the light turned green, I stood. Coincidence? I secured my loaded shotgun in my left hand.

"I will always carry you in my heart, Gabriel, first born of my twin children. You and your sister had your genesis inside me.

"I remember the first time I felt you and Gabrielle kicking in my womb like two lion cubs. I am sure you were fighting. But soon after you were born, you made it obvious that you needed each other. You both ceaselessly screamed bloody murder while separated. The minute you were united in one bassinet, the screaming stopped. You rolled together and went to sleep.

"Son, I have a secret to tell you. Don't tell your father. It would kill him. Gabrielle is more than a mere university sociology professor. Hah! I should leave it to her to tell you. Yes, my son, your sister must tell you.

"Gabriel, we are aching."

I stepped away from my child without turning.

"By the way, son, I'm not sure who'll find your killer first, me or your sister."