
It's not a word. It's not weeping. It's not just a cry. The sound is so haunting, it contains waves of feelings in it. Even the memory of hearing it may cause you to tremble, or bring tears to your eyes. When you hear it, even if you don't know what has happened, you will instantly realize something very significant and terrible has just occurred. Sometimes the sound is made by an aunt or grandmother or even a wife. It has probably been emitted by a dad or grandad or uncle. Maybe cousins can make the sound. I don't think it can be faked. The sound is almost visible, round. I imagine there's a bit of the person's soul or heart contained in that sound as it tears away from her body. And it inevitably affects everyone it touches.
I hope you have never heard that sound.
I hope you never hear that sound.
If you have ever made that sound, my heart aches for you.
Maybe the sound doesn't permanently change everyone who has heard it. But the echos of those sounds (I have, unfortunately, heard it several times.) linger in my mind. They whisper and howl as I make choices about my kids. I focus on long-term goals. I teach my kids manners, patience, kindness. I want them to learn about accountability and consequences. I need to be their guide into adulthood. But those sounds. That hurt beyond words. The reminder that bad things happen. Bad things happen to sweet little kids. I don't want the last thing I say to my son to be a denial of some simple material thing--a 25 cent toy, sprinkles on his ice cream cone. I try not to spoil my kids. I am still planning, hoping, praying for the long-term. I don't want my kids to feel and act entitled to everything or even anything. I don't want my boys

Being a parent is hard in so many ways. And this is one of them for me. Trying to make decisions with the weight of They Might Live 150 Years on one shoulder, and They Might Die Today on the other. Perhaps it's morbid and paranoid. Maybe you think it's a crazy or dumb way to think about living and raising kids. But it really is a burden some parents carry as they navigate life and parenting. And, for me, I can trace some of that burden's origins back to a sound that is more than a sound. The worst sound. A sound I hope I never hear again. And a sound I pray I never make.