Shared Sorrows

Reit and I sat on the beach watching ships go out into the North Sea headed for who knew where – the ferry to England and merchant ships perhaps to Buenos Aires or Jakarta or Galveston.  It was a quiet time, when nothing much happened.  Yet that was one of the most memorable events of all my travels, more memorable than the Louvre or Versailles or Chartres Cathedral or any of the other great “sights” of Europe. 

Why?  Although Reit spoke English haltingly and with gestures to indicate words she did not know, we understood one another.  Talking with someone “from the heart” is as rare as being given the Hope diamond.

My heart ached for her when she told about the death of her son Tony from a drug overdose.  Losing a child must be the worst thing that can happen to a woman.  Reit’s voice betrayed her sorrow, yet she calmly told me how Tony wasted his young life. 

My heart ached for her, as I, too, have a son with problems.  Not David, but Karl.  He does not smoke, drink alcohol, or do drugs.  He is still alive.  But he creates situations.  No one can “get along” with him.  He does things that alienate everyone. 

Before David and I went to Europe, I wrote asking him to arrange a place for us to stay in Frankfurt.  The day we arrived, we spent the afternoon sightseeing.  After dinner Karl said, “I have to go to class.  I hope you can find a place to stay.”

While David and I were in Rotterdam, Karl wrote that he was coming to meet us, due to arrive on the 8:00 p.m. train.  It took an hour for Kees and I to drive from the apartment, through a tunnel under the Maas River, and into the heart of the city and the railroad station.  Kees and I waited on the platform when the 8:00 p.m. train arrived on time.  Karl did not get off the train. 

We got back to Oldegaard Place at 10:00 p.m. and left again at 11:00 to drive back to the station.  Karl stepped off the train at midnight.  Without a word of apology for the inconvenience he caused, Karl talked excitedly about the big cathedral he had seen from the train window. 

“That must have been at Cologne,” I said.
“No, it wasn’t,” Karl said.  “It was Koln.”
“The German is Koln,” I said.  “The French call it Cologne, and we do, too.”
“It was Koln,” Karl insisted.  “It was not Cologne.”

That was Karl.  He had an answer to everything and refused to consider any other alternative.  Not a tragic life, like Tony’s.  But he makes it impossible for anyone to live with him.  He now lives alone in a dilapidated trailer in Rogers, Arkansas.  He has not called to wish me “Happy Mother’s Day” or sent me a Christmas card in eight years.

That’s my sorrow.  But, like Reit, I accept the situation.  I can not change him.