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The Line
by Jackson Scales It was a gray day in September, and I sat in my pick up truck, parked in a lot, bawling like a child as the radio played one Johnny Cash song after another. Finally, I had to switch it off, preferring to grieve in silence. Looking up, I blinked through hot tears at a whitewashed hospital building. Inside, on the fifth floor, my grandfather’s emaciated body lay upon a stiff bed, stiffly, his spirit having just sprung its trap. I was with him when it happened. Grandpa’s pale blue eyes had fluttered, closed, then a long, even sigh issued from his open mouth, ending in a rattle. No blinking lights went off. No sirens. Not one panicked doctor rushed in to revive him. Grandpa was very old and very sick and, well—that was that. I was standing beside my mother, holding her hand, when he departed. It was funny, I’d been wondering for months, for years, before this day arrived if I would cry. Even as a kid, I was morbidly obsessed with outliving the old man, fascinated by the inevitability of it, curious how I’d react to Fate finally flexing its muscle. And on this gray day in September, as a grown man — suddenly, I knew. My heart was just flat. Resigned. I couldn’t muster a single tear. But, boy, my Mama sure cried a few. She wailed. That unnerved me. And like an utter coward, I fled Grandpa’s room, then the fifth floor, and finally, the entire hospital building. Yep, I turned my back on the whole sorry affair and reached out instead for the emotional safety of my pick up truck, like a small child reaches for a favorite blanket. But after I climbed inside and turned the radio on, the deejay threw me yet another sucker punch by reporting that Johnny Cash had just died: Seventy-one years old. Complications from diabetes. Greatest man in country music. Rejoining his wife June in Heaven. He will be missed. Then Johnny’s songs began to play. And then I cried. Hard. And God help me—I couldn’t stop. That’s how Mama found me when she came down. After opening the passenger door of my truck, she set my guitar aside and slid in beside me. Her red eyes drank in my shaking form until she flinched. Mama doesn’t always understand her son’s pain, but she can always read its intensity. Her small, callused hand reached out, touched my shoulder, and squeezed. “Mama,” I sobbed, “Johnny Cash is…dead.” Her eyebrows lifted, shooting me a look of surprise. “What are you talking about, boy?” “On the radio. They just announced it. Turn it on if you don’t believe me.” She squinted. “Your grandfather just passed, and your tears aren’t for him?” I turned to face her, mustered a fragile smile, and said, “I’ve always known that I’d live in a world without Grandpa one day. In my heart, I’ve always been…prepared for that.” She lifted her hand from my shoulder, shook her head, and mumbled, “I don’t understand you sometimes.” “Well,” I sniffed, “Guess I just never prepared myself to live in a world without Johnny Cash, that’s all. It…hit me hard.” Mama and I traded blank stares for a moment. She broke first then wordlessly exited my truck. Blinking through fresh tears, I watched as she shuffled across the parking lot, looking small and alone, and I felt terrible afresh for being unable to comfort her. Then the hospitals sliding glass doors parted, allowing her to slip back into her own grief, and leaving me to stare absently at whitewashed walls. In vain, I tried to count every brick in the building, just trying my damnedest not to think about anything at all. But in only seconds I gave up this ruse, and scared of the silence, reached down, and turned the radio back on. Immediately, “I Walk the Line” began to play, filling the cab with the same sparse sound and haunting melody I’d known and loved all my life. With nothing left to lose, I picked up my guitar, cleared my throat, and tried to sing along. |
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