In a Chevy Lumina

When I was eight years old, my world changed. I was living with my grandparents at the time in an old house on the corner of Blue Bonnet and Ohio st. I was playing Pokemon, the Gold version I think, with friends from across the street. We were trying to catch a legendary Pokemon and at the end of a full day, we still hadn't managed. I remember seeing police officers outside my house, and wondering what all the fuss was about, but my grandparents told me to go over to the neighbors house and play. So at the end of our escapade, my thoughts were full to the brim of what could have happened. Did my dad who I had never seen turn out to be a mastermind criminal? Was my grandfather a secret crime boss, and I an unlikely heir to a grand fortune? My mind raced with possibilities, all of them painted with a brush of optimism and good fortune, because I had never known a world where loss existed.

On January 9th 2001, Bobby Jo Raffey died in a hit and run vehicle accident in which the driver was intoxicated. That name may not resonate for you, but I called her "mom." I was supposed to only be staying at my grandparents for a little bit, while my mom found a place for us to stay and live elsewhere. My grandparents were crushed, because you're not supposed to outlive your child right?

I wanted then to have super powers for the first time, to reset time in a way that I could save her. I didn't know then about any butterfly effect or impossibilities coexisting with time travel, I just wanted her back.

I don't remember for how long I cried for. I could tell you where I was. I was sitting on my grandmothers bed, and when she said, "An accident happened Johnathon, Bobby Jo, she passed away." I wasn't used to hearing my mother's name so I had naturally assumed that it was someone else, I even asked, "Bobby Jo? Is that someone who goes to our church, I don't think I know her." My grandmother turned around, tears streaming down her face, "Bobby Jo Raffey, Johnathon, your mother."

Yeah, my world broke. No, it shattered, into thousands of little pieces, because then I knew what it was to lose someone. At eight I understood things that most people take a long time to learn. I understood what it means to lose a parent, what it means to forfeit an innocence that you're supposed to keep for a few years longer.

During the summer of 2001, I suppose that I must've been a glum individual because of the conversations that I heard my grandparents having. I lived with them after her passing. "He's tough, he'll carry on," my grandfather would say. "He's not a soldier, he's a boy" my grandmother would reply. She was wrong though. It wasn't apparent to anyone, but I was much older than I was. I know that does't make sense, but you'll just have to take my word on it.

"He needs a friend," my grandmother would say. "He has friends, Brian, and Kevin." The neighbor kids that I was playing Pokemon with, if you'll recall. "

Why don't we get him a dog?" My grandmother said one afternoon.

I remember that afternoon because I had been watching a show called 'Caitlin's Way' a drama about a girl who had lost her mother to some type of accident and now she cared for horses. I don't remember finer plot points of the show, I just knew that I related to the character so I watched it.

The next day I was told that we were going to look at dogs. "Not to get one of course" my grandfather said, "just to look," he warned.

My grandmother was the one who drove me though.

We drove to a salon downtown where a blonde woman whose name I can't recall was busy washing someones hair in a fancy sink.

There were two puppies lying on the ground ready to greet anyone who walked on in. One was all energy, and the other one I remember becoming transfixed on. He seemed a little bit mopey. Like me, and that was all it really took. I would find out later that their mother had died in an accident that previous week, but I guess my grandmother knew it then, and she had a feeling about things like that. She was religious, but some coincidences can't be ignored I suppose.

One of the finest memories I have is taking that dog home, because he was a sad puppy. He was sad like me, and we were sad together on that car ride home. Assuring him that things were going to be okay in a weird way made things okay for me. By the end of the car ride in my grandmother's golden Chevy Lumina we were the best of friends. I was asked to name him, and I thought, well he looks like Sand. Sandy it is. I asked him if he liked the name, and he licked my face which I took as an affirmative.

It's been 21 years since that summer, and Sandy has long since been in angels arms or whatever you believe happens to dogs. 21 years, and I've driven across state lines with loved ones, gone on road trips with people who I care deeply for. I've shared special nights, and feelings in various cars. I've had mental breakdowns, I've had moments of absolute Hallelujah! But in that Chevy Lumina, on the way back from a salon owned by a blonde haired woman- That's the car ride that I will look most fondly upon. Where I met Sandy. Where he met me. Where our shared grief made life bearable again, and we became, if not whole, at least a little less broken.