Thursday, September 29, 2011

Taking My Hand


I begged the nurse to take me to see him.  I begged and begged.  I was crying.

“Mister Connors, please.  They’re cleaning him up a bit for you to see him.”  The blonde nurse said.  She had tears streaming from her eyes.

I sat there in the chair crying.  Begging to know what happened, how it happened, and who did this to my son.  No one could or would answer me.  Part of me knew they couldn’t; part of me knew they wouldn’t.

The cop came towards me.  “Marty let me have your weapon.”

“What?”

“Your weapon; give me your weapon please.”

I looked at him.  I unsnapped my holster and drew my weapon out and handed it to the cop.  I knew it was procedure.  I knew it was for my own good.

“I want the head of who ever killed my son on a stick!”  I knew it was the shock speaking, but it was also the father in me wanting blood for anyone hurting my child, my son.

The door to the family room opened.  Another nurse stuck her head in and put her hand up in a “come to me” motion to the blonde nurse.  The blonde went over and they exchanged whispers.

“Am I going to see my son?”

The blonde stood at the door for a moment and then walked to me held out her hand to me.  I took her hand and stood.  I felt my legs buckle.  My body felt heavy.  I felt hot tears streaming down my face.