Police

I finally fall asleep around 3:00 this morning. At 4:55 the police bang one my door. They are looking for Colby. I am stunned. They did not bother to show up for his 911 call when he passed away and now here they are more than a month later. “My son has passed away,” I finally stammer. These, apparently, are the wrong words. They don’t believe me. I tell them to call the medical examiner, the mortuary, to call Channel 4, who did a story on his Celebration of Life. My words do not interest them. Instead, they ask to come in and look around. I refuse. This, too, was the wrong thing to do. They become belligerent, threatening. I start to cry. I tell them over and over that my son, my only child, my baby, is gone. They don’t leave until I sink to the floor, wrap my arms around my knees and begin to rock. I sit there, rocking in front of the glass storm door, for a long time.

At 6:33 they are back. At 6:33 p.m. on July 25 Colby was pronounced as deceased at Nashville's St. Thomas hospital. If I am awake anytime the clock hits 6:33 I say a prayer for my son. This morning’s prayer is interrupted by intense banging on my door. This time they have a warrant. One instructs me to sit on the couch, the other rummages through my house. I tell the one by the door that I have a death certificate in an envelope in my office. I have a stack of condolence cards that I have not yet written thank you's for. I have this blog. Colby has a memorial website. The Bellevue Masons just did a breakfast in his honor. This cold, cold police officer is not interested. The search only lasts a few minutes. The second officer shakes his head at the first and suddenly they are gone. I sit on the couch, unable to move. I am numb. After a time, I slowly walk through my house. Drawers, closets, and cabinets are pulled open, contents spilling to the floor. I wrap myself up and sit in a cornet on the floor and cry.