The Great Change

As usual, I was close by during the impact. The crunch of plastic bumpers and squeal of metal bending reverberate around me. I hear a yell from the smaller vehicle. She calls upon her Creator. Not my creator. I move closer as other onlookers yell, record the event, or call emergency services. I am silent as I watch. There is nothing else for me to do yet. I have noticed through time that more people tend to record an event than to help or call for others to help. Documenting things seems to have become more important than the things themselves. It does not matter to me. I do what I have to do, when I have to do it. The people do not matter to me, and neither does their reaction. It is just something I have noticed.

The helpers have pulled the woman from the car. Its bumpers had not been much protection from the old pickup truck that had run into its side. The air bag had smashed the woman’s eyeglasses into her face, now a mottled bruised and bloody mask. Unsure of her condition, they swarm over her like flies. She is fortunate this happened on a busy street. When this happens in the country or in rural areas, the suffering endure their pain alone. I pause in my path and recall when people began to live alone. They began to live alone, and then they began to suffer alone. There were always a few who suffered alone, but not like now. Tribes and families offer protection from the suffering. Well, not protection, really. Comfort. There are less tribes and fewer families. People seem to think that making their own tribes and their own families helps. I wonder if it really does.

The call to me continues. Its insistence has increased so I would not even have to ignore the voices and noise around me to hear it. I make my way to the woman lying on the ground. Her heart beats to me from the pavement. An EMT pushes past me, his arm touching my own. I see a swirl of vision: colorful, vivid. His thought, concern for the wounded woman and mental preparation for her care, punches into my own mind. Then the colors and thoughts are gone. Our encounter affected him far differently. He falters in his action and another EMT nudges him from behind. For a second, he looks at me while trying to decipher his reaction, but he does not understand what it means. He will not forget my touch. Pulled back to his duty by his fellow, they rush to assess the woman’s injuries.

I am no longer surprised that humans react to me like this. They experience so many unnatural things that touching me has ceased to be the shock it once was. I used to be able to make weak ones faint just by being in their presence. They use to get chills and they would build fires to keep me away. The memory of blazing bonfires on countless hills comes and goes. No more. They do not try to keep me away like that anymore. At first, I thought it was because they no longer feared me. I thought that might be a good thing. But no, that was not it. They just tried to force me away in other ways, less beautiful.

I can sense that the woman is not for me, her heart beats too strongly, her breaths too forceful. She answers the questions asked. I turn towards the truck. Oddly, no one has checked on the driver. The front fender is bent badly, but is otherwise unscathed. Police have made their way to the scene, busying themselves with directing traffic and moving the bystanders out of the way. Cars drive by slowly to allow their drivers to gawk at the scene. They are interested in the event so they can discuss it later. They will wonder if someone died. This is not new. Such things are always a matter for conversation and gossip. Sometimes they speak with care for the injured and the dead. Sometimes they pray for them. I went to a funeral once when I had time. There’s no time for that anymore.

I stop by the door of the truck. The driver has had a heart attack. He can not speak. Could he speak, this close to meeting me? When does speech fail? A police woman makes her way to the truck. She sees the situation, knows what it means. Her hand feels the weak pulse and she calls for help. I reach into the truck and touch the man. His sight has failed him, as has his hearing. The pain has begun to recede as his senses fade. His memories are still there, and they play across my vision though present only in the man’s mind. We are joined now, he and I. We have always been joined, in a way, destined to meet like this someday.

Despite the darkness of his senses and the chill of my touch, the man exudes warmth. My vision is full of women, children, and men running and fighting. He is unafraid. I grip him more tightly from a desire to understand. Usually, fear is the dominant feeling. I have tried to discern what differentiates those who fear from those who do not. There are warriors who do not fear, and those who do. There are nuns who are petrified, and those who are not. An EMT has made his way to the man. They pull him from the truck onto a gurney and begin CPR. A stab of terror pierces the man’s steady warmth. Was it my grip that brought it on? A seeping black begins to grow from that seed of fright. It does not grow as quickly as it does for most.

As usual, I am a spectator until I must act. I have a hold on the man and he will be mine. The interplay of other things spins out before my sight. The ambulance runs us down the road, but I choose to see only what the man’s memories bring before me. Sadness rises up within him. Still, he resists. Then, a memory of a little boy appears, and a presence beyond my own grabs the man’s heart. I expected this, too. Almost always such a presence comes when the person shows their weakness. It is rare when it does not. I wait, wondering if there will be another presence. Less and less often does the other presence come. These other presences wane and wax through the ages. If I were not so busy, I might be able to figure out why. But I have not ceased for many years now. There is no Sabbath for my work.

Like a sliver of sunrise, the other presence comes. It truly dawns within the man. The sadness changes to a sweetness I can not comprehend. It spreads across the darkness like incense, clouding it out and reminding the man of fragrances from the past. The air actually smells of antiseptic, but the man thinks only of incense. An EMT yells, “Clear!” The man’s body buckles. I hear the bells along with the man. Once. “Clear!” Twice. “Clear!” Thrice. With each ring the darkness recedes more and more, the warmth resuming within him. And then he is mine, but only for the briefest moment while his last memory fires. My coldness covers the body completely and I release my grip. There is nothing left to hold. He is gone. And I am not.

I hear another call.