Randall Simmons II

Helpless


I am reminded of a time one of the students close to us died. We never talk about it. The kid was in a grade below me in high school, and he was friends with some of my band friends. He was too attractive for me to talk to, and I already had a difficult time talking to people. His friends never introduced me. But he was nice. Not the nice like “the murderer was a nice kid. Quiet, but nice.” He was a genuinely nice person. Everyone at school seemed to know that he was a kind, compassionate person. 

I went to his viewing. A lot of the school did. Most people trickled in and out. It was a large place, but there were several hundred people who came. 

It was difficult to believe it happened.

I stayed for a while in solidarity of my band friends. I wanted to comfort them. This was after my mom died, and I knew that words couldn’t bring comfort. Hugs were awkward and only helped so much. I had watched all the videos and read all the books and knew that just being there for people was the only thing you could do.

But I was helpless.

There’s nothing you can do in that situation. It’s not about you. It’s not even about them. They are stuck in their own individual abyss of grief, and you cannot combine the hells, as much as you might want to. I was the outsider…trying to look in…trying to help.

I still remember her eyes.

One friend in particular had glassy eyes. Tears refused to fall and refused to leave. Green eyes bright as day, sad as night. They haunted my dreams for a while.

And I just stood there.

Being there.

At last I left. 

There is no great end to this story. There was no thank you, no encouragement, no attaboy. Nor am I seeking one now. Sometimes things just—are.

And again, there’s nothing to say.

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