No one can tell you how it feels to see a dead body for the first time.
Other than funerals and being with my best friend as her mom passed away, I have never seen a dead body. Today I saw one on the side of the road in Haiti. Trucks continued to whiz by. People didn't stop. You can't stop for a body in a world like this. If you stop for a dead body like that the police will arrest you, especially if you are an American. They will say you killed the poor bloke, even if they know you didn't. They want bribes to get you out of jail. You must carry on as if nothing happened. You can call the police and report it and the police will call their family if they decide to take the time to figure out who it is. But you can't stick around. Most bodies are found down here by family members who are out searching because they haven't seen their kin in a few days.
This dead body was a man in his late twenties. He looked like he was sleeping on his side except for the red pillow spilling out from under his head. Someone had marked the body like you mark a broken down vehicle in this country, using tree branches. It was as if that person wanted to believe that the man was just broken down. Someone could fix him up just right with the correct tools.
As we drove by David told me why we couldn't stop. I understood. I did. He said you have to harden yourself, make yourself callous. We can't risk getting involved and getting thrown in prison for a crime we didn't commit. Prison isn't a good place here. It's a very dangerous place. You are almost guaranteed to contract a disease you can't get rid of in prison if you don't starve or get shanked first.
When I thought about the body laying there, my inner cultural respect for the dead was shrieking, "This is wrong! This should not happen. Someone should care for him. For his family's sake." I could feel my heart pounding in my neck. I was suddenly conscious of all the blood pulsing through my own body, and how much I don't want any of it to come out. The tears pressed behind my eyes, yearning to escape, but I didn't let them. I don't cry. I cannot cry. I must become callous. I laugh and make jokes but I know the smiles don't make it to my eyes. David knows. He always knows I'm upset when my eyes don't smile with my face. He kisses my head and talks to me about anything else so that I can slowly forget the pounding in my body.
Eventually the pressures in my body fade but the image of the man doesn't. It's raining now. I hope someone moved his corpse out of the rain. Unless I'm to believe that idea that every child thinks about, the one that rain is GOD crying. If that's the case, let Him cry. Let Him cry for the son he just lost and for His nearby children that are showing great apathy. Let Him cry for the soul of the person who just left him on the side of the road after killing him. I couldn't let myself do it, so let The Lord cry over his remains. The man needs someone to cry for him.
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