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| *Artwork by Edward Dyas |
“My mother died yesterday,” she writes. “She was eighty-seven years old, and I never told her I loved her. But I did.”
The post rears up from six-hundred twenty others and slaps
me full in the face, such a sharp surprise I have to blink back tears. Who wrote
this? I don’t know her. Her name is Sadie and she’s from Scotland .
My fingers float over the keys, and finally I type, “She
knew it.” I hesitate, and then punch delete.
Facebook is such an odd microorganism of life! I almost feel
anger at this woman for hurting me this way, and a large part of me wants to
tell her that she should have laid the computer aside, just for a minute or so,
long enough to say those three words.
What sort of society bares their souls to total strangers on
little-bitty screens all day long every day? Are there studies being done
somewhere on the long term effects? Hang on, I need a cup of coffee while I
think about this.
Okay, my Facebook may be unique in that, in addition to
actual friends, I have crammed it full with authors, bloggers and firefighters
from every corner of the globe. In short, people I don’t know.
Which is to say, they don’t know me either.
“Mmm-mmm, fried chicken and okra tonight. Jimmy should be
home by six and this girl just wants to put her arms around him.” They’re from the south. He drives a truck and
she’s got three kids at home, one of whom broke his leg last week. For a minute I can almost smell supper, hear
Bandit scratching at the back door and see the first spring flowers.
“Lil girl didn’t make it but Tierra doing better, and God
got his loving arms wrapped around that baby.” Chicago .
The daughter lost her preemie, but they’ll be okay because they are so, so
religious.
“Lost my freakin gloves in the field fire south of town.
FML.” Okay, that was a huge fire, saw that on the news. Gloves should be the
least of his worries.
“Day twelve without a cigarette!” “Christian brought home a science project
that is going to cost us forty dollars to build a friggin robot. Hate this
school system!” “Watching Chicago Fire
with my hunny.” “No fat shaming!” “We’ve been pooping wrong! Asians squat on
the toilet with their feet on the seat.” Aaaaargh! The messages fly off the screen, take on accents
and nuances, and, sometimes, lose all meaning. Facebook is no place for empathy
or patience. Is it?
“I never told her I loved her.” Ah, Sadie, there you are
again. I am so sorry.
Maybe Facebook isn’t so different from anywhere else? Maybe
everyone is just clamoring to be heard like bus-trapped kids on a field trip –
excited, happy, sick or disconsolate? Hear me! Listen to my story!
“I don’t know you, Sadie,” I type. “But I really hate this
for you. I think it will get better in time.”
The knot in my chest loosens just a little.
And I remember, then, that I’ve got a direct line to the
Pope on Twitter. I’ll drop a note to him about Sadie.
~*~*~
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