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Dr. Sid Hammerback, ME
22 July 2009 @ 11:44 pm
Name: Dr. Sid Hammerback

Fandom: CSI: New York

Word Count: 1041


Show and tell.


“This is my daddy. He cooks.”

Christopher was proud of his father, and it showed as he puffed out his chest and stood to full height in front of the man in the tall white hat, toolbox in one hand, other hand resting lightly on the boy’s shoulder. A Chef seemed like a much better option for a school parental career’s day than someone who cut up dead bodies. Smiling, Sid thought briefly, and then dove head first into speaking about his profession during his five minute allotment, while the fireman, the doctor and the optometrist waited patiently at the sidelines.


There was a time, actually, there were many times after the Twin Towers fell, that I was tempted to stop moving, to stop feeling, to stop processing. All this continued life around me, and sometimes, all I wanted was for it to vanish, was for me to become unfeeling, un-noticing, unmoved by all the loss. I just wanted to be some sort of numb extant pillar, punished by being the one to remain, but unyielding to the influence of life otherwise. I am continuously thankful for the chances I have been given since that time, the opportunity of support from my friends and family, the ability to keep working when it looked like I might fall apart. I am grateful to Mac, because now he allows me a certain about of pretence, a pretending that allows me to go about without being known as the one, just like him, who lost it all.


Marianne was playing the role of petulant lover and he the role of decisive master, her long heels stamping the dance floor as he held her a little too tight, a little too possessively for absolute comfort. He dipped her and she mocked forgiveness, pushing suddenly closer to him, back to his chest, slithering down his body, hips gyrating all the while. As the sparks between them became almost tangible in the air, she snapped once more, putting a little space between them as he twirled her, both sets of feet moving all the while. He showed her off and between them they told a little story of their own making, gave a little performance, a tiny insight into an imaginary but entirely believable other kind of life. It helped that his hair was streaked with grey and hers wasn’t.


Some people are unable to be divided, as their love creates an indivisible bond between them, one that is satiated in togetherness and strained in separation. It is why such conditions exist as broken heart syndrome, or those slightly mysterious but all too real cases of an elderly widow or widower dying soon after their spouse has. With Marianne and I, if we were both old and doddery it would have been like that. My heart, in the end stages of life, I am sure would not have been designed to live without her for very long. However, I have at least thirty good years ahead of me, and at the most many more than that, and this number was only larger when she died, when my sons died. My heart needed to continue, because as much as Marianne meant to me, she was a apart of my life, and my life, with her departure, with the departure of Christopher and Michael, it still, at that point, needed to continue. The need to continue has been one that has stayed with me ever since. Whereas they once gave me something extra and something lovely to live for, I now live for myself, and for their memory, and for life itself, of course.


“This is my girlfriend Marianne.” Sid said, propping the red haired girl against the teacher’s desk, nudging her into place with an errant hand on her upper arm. They had only really been dating for about a month, but it wasn’t like they had broken the news to everyone. The teacher, having had sat through seashells and five assorted pieces of interesting leaves and insects quietly rolled his eyes and gave the boy permission to continue via a wave of his hand.

“She has lovely hair, like a sunset, and she smells like flowers. Lavender today because her mom bought her some new soap. I taught her to make cookies and she showed me how plait her hair. Her favourite ice cream is vanilla with sprinkles, and she laughs like those, those.”

Forgetting his speech wasn’t part of the plan.

“Sleighbells on the horses at Christmas time near Central Park.” the girl interjected, smiling widely, happily, her cheeks just a little bit red as she urged the boy to go back to his desk, sharp fingernails suddenly pressed square into his palm.


Once I had a wife named Marianne and two children named Christopher and Michael. For many, many years, decades even, my wife and I showed each other off to the world, and through our own individual learning, we told each other many things. When my boys came along into our lives, we showed them off and told of them to family and friends and to the inquiring prising hands and eyes of old grandmothers walking the streets of New York City. I once had much to show and tell of, and while I was a proud man, I was never greedy, I was never too egotistical, too narcissistic, too anything bad. Then suddenly, all that I had to show and tell to the world was gone, simply extinguished in a combination of flames, death, planes and falling buildings. Since then, I have my job to show up for, and my friends and family to tell stories too. With the memories of my wife and children close by my heart and my head, this form of show and tell is enough to make me happy. I still miss my wife and children, and I always will, but it has not stopped me living, because I have too much that I can show and tell to the world, too many things I still want to do and speak of. Their love, the memories of them, and now the love of my family and friends, it does sustain me in happiness, it does, it always will.
 
 
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