August 25th, 2016 - Lori Phillips

The invitation began, “Please join us to celebrate the graduation of Zachary S. Marcath from Armada High School...” A picture of him in a blue-and-white plaid flannel shirt and blue jeans, with a closed-mouth smile, leaning against gray weathered barnwood, accompanied the words.

Of course we would be there. He was my nephew and godchild, and we only lived a few miles apart.

My sister, Donna, had probably put a “Congrats Grad” sign in the front yard, but I don’t remember for sure. I do remember that it was still early afternoon when we arrived at her home in the country for Zach’s party, and the red on the thermometer had already risen to the high 80s. My skin was sticky from the humidity. An evening thunderstorm was predicted—which, of course, would squash plans for a bonfire—but for now, the sun was shining.

In the designated box, I slid an envelope with money and a card full of encouragement and promises that dreams could come true.

About 200 people, mostly family, would be coming to celebrate. My husband, my kids, and I arrived early to help Donna, my brother-in-law Al, their daughter Rachel, and Zach set up in the pole barn. We always helped each other. We always got along well, with the exception of one time, when I was a freshman in high school and Donna was about eight years old. I remember getting mad at her because I thought she wasn’t keeping our shared bedroom clean enough.

It wasn’t long before orange-and-black plastic table covers (Go Armada Tigers!), decorations, and printed pictures of Zach’s previous 18 years transformed the workspace of metal, wood, and cement into a party palace. Piles of purple Grand Champion ribbons Zach had received for 4-H cattle, sheep, and poultry competitions throughout his childhood lined the tables and walls. A workbench piled with tools became a buffet line of pulled pork, mac and cheese, taco salad, beans, fruit salad, cake, cookies, and more.

Guests played yard games, ate, drank, and made s’mores over a bonfire that could’ve been seen from space. I don’t remember a single conversation from that day, though I am sure Zach was asked again and again, “What’s next?” He didn’t know. Wasn’t planning on college. He was already a skilled mechanic, so I imagined he might pursue that.

As the oldest of 11 grandchildren from my parents’ side of the family, Zach was the first to reach this milestone. It marked a new era. Ready for adulting. Ready for all the amazing potential adventures to come.

This day, this new era, was a big day for Zach, but it didn’t change much for me, at least not in a way that affected my relationships. The thing about eras is we don’t really know when they begin and end until after. And even then, I’m not sure.

He started a lawn-cutting and snow-plowing business. Time went by, and Zach got a job in a shop fixing tractors. He also bought beater cars, repaired them, and sold them for a profit. He started working as an HVAC technician. Then he started buying antique tractors and making them like new again. He was awarded winning ribbons for those, too. Every year, his engineering and creative skills advanced.

Meanwhile, every year, our families got together for holidays and everydays.

Zach fell in love and got engaged. Everyone was excited for another incredible era, one of weddings.

On a May evening, a couple of weeks after his 26th birthday, Zach was in the barn, putting a new tire on a tractor wheel. A technique that is sometimes used to quickly inflate and seal tires involves spraying a combustible liquid, like starter fluid, on the wheel and then applying an open flame to it. But instead of a small, controlled explosion sealing the tire, the steel wheel—which weighed hundreds of pounds—came off the tractor, hit him in the head, projected him into the air, and tossed him 20 feet away.

It knocked him out. My sister, who had come home just in time to see her crushed son on the ground, blew breath into his lungs while her baby’s blood poured out onto the white gravel driveway. She managed to resuscitate him, and an ambulance sped him to the hospital.

The waiting room and nearby hospital halls were packed with Zach’s family and friends. We stayed up all night, praying, crying.

In the still-dark morning hours, the doctor came to tell us that they had done everything they could. The outlook, if Zach survived at all, would be bleak. Donna and Al had to make the decision no parent wants to make: prolong life artificially or end it. I went in with Donna to say goodbye.

Zach’s entire head was wrapped in countless layers of white gauze. It didn’t seem real. How could it be? His head looked like it was two feet in diameter.

I looked up at the blinding fluorescent ceiling light above the bed and thought, “Now. Now is the time for a miracle, God. Right now.”

Donna squeezed Zach’s hand. She said something I don’t remember.

My mind frantically searched for the right words. If they existed, I couldn’t find them. My body felt heavy; my feet and arms pinned in place. My heart felt like it had fallen out of my body, spiraling down from a skyscraper and crashing straight into Hell.

“We love you, Zach,” I said.

He died soon after.

It’s been 10 years since that high school graduation party, when I gave the card that promised adventure and choices and sparkly new beginnings. It’s been almost two years since I wrote his obituary, and it’s another new era.

This new era is the I-think-of-Zach-every-single-day era. It’s the I-see-him-everywhere era. The my-sister-says-she’s-not-mad-at-me-but-she-and-I-barely-talk-anymore-though-she-talks-to-other-people era. The I-want-to-turn-back-the-clock era. The don’t-take-a-single-day-for-granted era. There are some wounds I know time cannot heal, but I keep praying that it will.

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Lori lives in Michigan, with her family and a melange of wildlife and farm animals. She reads medical journals for fun, loves exploring new places, and enjoys helping people and things grow. Lori has an MFA in creative writing from Alma College with an emphasis on fiction and nonfiction. Undergraduate studies included English, Biology, and Studio Arts. Designing and sewing her wedding dress is one of her favorite creative achievements. Her work has been featured in The Richmond Review, The Response, The Romeo Observer, The Chesterfield Review, and Frontline magazine. She is working on a collection of essays, articles, and a novel.

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