The Look

If you've read this far, you probably know which look I'm talking about. It was the same look the cowboy ghosts gave me. The same look I got from my second grade teacher when they paged me to the principals office. The look I kept getting at every single funeral. The same look I got from every teacher on the first day of school. The same look I still get from grown ups when I tell them - which is why I don't.

The "look" does not help. It just makes me feel guilty, like I'm still supposed to be sad.

It's a sad look, a falsely pittying look. Because while there is some genuine concern, what they're realy thinking is, "Holy crap, I'm glad that didn't happen to my family."

One person in my whole life did not look at me that way. When it came up in conversation my friend Rich said, "Thank God, another person with a dead mother." This was a new - albeit welcome response for me. "Now you won't give me that look," he said, "when I tell you that somebody murdered my mother four weeks ago."

I didn't look at him like that. I just looked at him and shrugged. I knew exactly what he meant, even though my mom didn't die in the trunk of a car.