How I Met Your Mother

How I Met Your Mother
Yomi Ṣode
 
Earlier today, Henry Cassell read a eulogy before friends
and family for his son, Ivar, on the eve of his graduation day.
Such is the power in his name that no tint could hold the light’s
persistence through the glazed glass of the church, shining onto
those it housed. Including Ethan’s father.

Four weeks ago, Ethan ran towards Ivar Cassell, misfiring
a bullet at his thigh on the first attempt, then – aware
of the blowback – he gripped, firm on the second attempt,
firing the remaining rounds into Ivar’s chest. Days later,
as the community caught wind of yet another senseless killing,
biblically, I wondered whether David felt like this,
a similar relief, after slaying Goliath.

Before the murder. Ivar pelted Ethan Williams’s car
with eggs, slashing the tyres and keying fuck you on the bonnet
for neighbours and passers-by to see. It’s gone too far,
some whispered. Never loud enough to be heard. The crown
is not worth that much, but what good are jewels when reasons
for wars become a ritual, often lost in translation.

Before the murder, Ethan sat in his local chicken and chips shop,
turning each hot wing like a slow roast over a fire pit
rationalising violence as the right thing to do. On the TV,
we watched boss man recalling him looking tranquil,
nothing like a murderer. Nothing like a front page spread kid,
a single parent at home kid, an acronym branded for life kid.

Before the children, Silva, a mutual friend of Henry Cassell
and Riley Williams, was run over while trying to bring peace
to their ongoing feud. A planned reunion gone horribly wrong.
Later that evening, the police found a crushed box in Silva’s
pocket containing an engagement ring. Typical of Silva
to put himself before others. I pictured his arms outstretched
in the parting of ferocious seas, only to become the martyr of
their rage. A young Mercutio comforted to sleep.

Numbness sits in the air when we hear news of another, unalived.
The ritual is the same. Fresh flowers bedding the washed
concrete. Softening the drop of each tear. We become directors
in our dreams, playing back / editing out the stark reality.
Lastly, without asking, we become pardners in community.
Money parting our hands towards the funeral of others.
There is no language of reciprocity. We are akin in grief.
Travel safe, we say, with dignity. 

Before the children. Before Silva’s untimely death, an argument
in the dinner hall spilled onto the school entrance between Henry
Cassell and Riley Williams and we don’t know who to cheer for.
The rumour was that Henry said Riley couldn’t read, that Riley
told girls that Henry was caught kissing a boy. That’s why they hate
each other.

Before the fight and for the third time that week, Riley had taken
all the sandwiches out of Henry’s lunch box to eat, then left
with a striking blow to his stomach. Within the silence, I hand
him my egg mayo sandwich in good spirit, wondering when
enough will be enough. Thank you, I hate him.

Moments later, a girl taps my shoulder, hands me her sandwich,
and I’m faced with such beauty that trying to describe her to you
would do little justice. That was sweet of you, she said. What’s your
name? Before I saw her, before answering her, I questioned life,
and chaos in equal measure.
 
 
© Yomi Ṣode