TM 225 -- Without Words
"Do not the most moving moments of our lives find us without words?" Marcel Marceau
Dear Charlie --
This is going to be my second letter in a row, questioning the wisdom of bumper sticker slogans, but I'm sure about this one, either. I was a cop, remember. Murder police. I saw a damn lot of people at the most moving moments of their lives, learning they'd never see a loved one again; or learning they'd never see the outside of a prison cell again. Moving moments go both ways.
And sure, I guess, some of them were what we'd call speechless -- quiet, or sullen, or nonverbal, which isn't really the same thing. But just as often, I noticed over the years, people would start to talk. They'd say any damn thing that came into their mind. Not the right words, of course, not the ones to say what they meant. But still. Words.
There's a reason they started making cops tell perps they have the right to remain silent. And they do. They also have the right to open their mouths and say the most random, inappropriate, disconnected stuff, which in hardly any case is actually going to help their case. But no cop ever told a collar he had the right to do that; people figure that one out all on their own.
And look at you and me. Up until the bitter end, we never stopped running our mouths at each other. Those days when you were in the hospital bed, losing your mind to the cancer -- if anything, it seemed like you had more to say. You probably don't remember this -- I hope you don't remember this -- but you were singing songs. You were saying things that were disconnected, talking to people who weren't there. You weren't missing your words; you just didn't have the right ones for the right time. No one ever does.
-Renee
Dear Charlie --
This is going to be my second letter in a row, questioning the wisdom of bumper sticker slogans, but I'm sure about this one, either. I was a cop, remember. Murder police. I saw a damn lot of people at the most moving moments of their lives, learning they'd never see a loved one again; or learning they'd never see the outside of a prison cell again. Moving moments go both ways.
And sure, I guess, some of them were what we'd call speechless -- quiet, or sullen, or nonverbal, which isn't really the same thing. But just as often, I noticed over the years, people would start to talk. They'd say any damn thing that came into their mind. Not the right words, of course, not the ones to say what they meant. But still. Words.
There's a reason they started making cops tell perps they have the right to remain silent. And they do. They also have the right to open their mouths and say the most random, inappropriate, disconnected stuff, which in hardly any case is actually going to help their case. But no cop ever told a collar he had the right to do that; people figure that one out all on their own.
And look at you and me. Up until the bitter end, we never stopped running our mouths at each other. Those days when you were in the hospital bed, losing your mind to the cancer -- if anything, it seemed like you had more to say. You probably don't remember this -- I hope you don't remember this -- but you were singing songs. You were saying things that were disconnected, talking to people who weren't there. You weren't missing your words; you just didn't have the right ones for the right time. No one ever does.
-Renee