Death in the Afternoon

Yesterday I got my dog and ran over to Meder Street Park, where I found a memorial going on, about 75 people. I decided to run and then attend to see what was happening. When I got to the dog park I found out that the memorial was for 25 year old Zachary Parke, the bike messenger and climber who was killed in a hit and run on Empire Grade Road on June 8, a couple weeks ago. He was hit from behind on a narrow dark road by Elliot Dess, who fled the scene, failed to call 911, lied to the police, and is now facing felony manslaughter and hit and run charges.

Man. I sat at the park and thought about bikes, and cars, about mixed use conflicts (bikes vs hikers, cars vs bikes, cars vs pedestrians).

I thought about two lives, one ended, one about to become a kind of hell. No way to hit rewind.

When I got back to the memorial, I walked among the mourners and well wishers, seeing many young faces, some drawn and sad, others talking and smiling in the perfect June sun, all trying in their own ways to come to terms with what had happened. Cliff met all the dogs at the memorial, and I stood in front of a table full of Zach's mountain climbing gear, including chalk bags that he had made himself. Long shadows from the trees...I tried to imagine his life, his family, all the people affected by his too early departure from this glorious life.

I took a flyer with images of Zachary on it, and then looked at some other pictures of him, one as a little kid with whipped cream on his face. That little kid, smiling into the camera.

At the food table a woman said "Please take some bananas" so I took a bunch (literally) and Cliff and I walked home, past the Jewish cemetery on Meder. I stopped and thought back; when I'd walked by this earlier, I had seen all the cars parked and thought there was a funeral, but all I saw was the usual Arcadian scene: gravestones, trees, grass, birds hopping from branch to branch. And now I understood that there had been a death, and the funeral/ritual was a new kind of funeral: mostly to honor the life of the fallen young man, but also to bring friends and fellow cyclists together to ask questions about safety of roads, about justice.

When I got home I put the bananas on the dining room table, and the pictures of Zach next to my computer. Lia and Paul came in from a ride, hot and tired and happy, newlyweds. I showed Lia the images of Zach and she was quiet as she read about his life and death.

When I asked her where she'd biked to, she said, "Up Empire Grade Road to Bonny Doon and back."