Thick and wet, the snow shed off the roof last night, blocking the front door. Yesterday, DaNae and I shoveled off the roof of our old house for the renter. I didn't charge her, adding it to the list of good deeds I've done for you. Remember how you and DaNae begged to shovel that roof, just so you could jump off? Until last year, when I had to beg you to help me. Remember how mad I got?
Today, I'll be shoveling and plowing, again. It's warm and safe inside, and Cholo curls beside me.
Why did you have to die your father's death, son? I tried so hard to save you. Cholo has been depressed. I think he figured his boy would come home for Christmas. I gave him two beef bones. He curls up with Pop the Penguin, the stuffed toy I sleep with.
We haven't been to the mountain, yet. I got DaNae a day pass and we plan on snowboarding next week after the holiday crowd disperses. It won't be the same without you.
Sunday, December 28, 2008
Wednesday, December 24, 2008
Dear Nik
Dear Nik,
It's Christmas Eve and the snow falls out of the sky like candy, sweet and delicious, innocent and free. I got the plow stuck and you weren't here to dig me out. I raged, I cried, my tears sticking to my face like icicles. I put the chains on the back tires, and somehow managed to get myself out of the hole of snow.
We have a fireplace now and I think you would have enjoyed starting the fire, making flames always amused you. DaNae and I have gotten pretty good at it (we have too). She misses you terribly. You were like her dark twin, and you were always there for each other, in spite of the bickering and differences in personalities.
Cholo wants a boy for Christmas, but he's stuck with me. He drives with me in big blue, and your Aunt Jenny calls us DeCholo plow company. He sleeps on my bed at night. Remember how you would call him on the bed when I did my homework so you could sit with him, and me. I miss that. I miss your voice and your smile. I miss the thought of you growing up.
Tomorrow is Christmas and you are not here to cook breakfast, open presents, and prepare the auderves we would bring to Christmas dinner.
Schweitzer has opened and after the holidays I will bring some of your ashes to headwall. I promise to make that run every trip. Ryan is going to bring some of you up to your favorite spot, a place to hellacious for me to even think of attempting.
When I die and go to heaven, I'll be in good company. When I die and go to heaven, I hope that you will wait for me.
It's Christmas Eve and the snow falls out of the sky like candy, sweet and delicious, innocent and free. I got the plow stuck and you weren't here to dig me out. I raged, I cried, my tears sticking to my face like icicles. I put the chains on the back tires, and somehow managed to get myself out of the hole of snow.
We have a fireplace now and I think you would have enjoyed starting the fire, making flames always amused you. DaNae and I have gotten pretty good at it (we have too). She misses you terribly. You were like her dark twin, and you were always there for each other, in spite of the bickering and differences in personalities.
Cholo wants a boy for Christmas, but he's stuck with me. He drives with me in big blue, and your Aunt Jenny calls us DeCholo plow company. He sleeps on my bed at night. Remember how you would call him on the bed when I did my homework so you could sit with him, and me. I miss that. I miss your voice and your smile. I miss the thought of you growing up.
Tomorrow is Christmas and you are not here to cook breakfast, open presents, and prepare the auderves we would bring to Christmas dinner.
Schweitzer has opened and after the holidays I will bring some of your ashes to headwall. I promise to make that run every trip. Ryan is going to bring some of you up to your favorite spot, a place to hellacious for me to even think of attempting.
When I die and go to heaven, I'll be in good company. When I die and go to heaven, I hope that you will wait for me.
Monday, December 15, 2008
Implied Illusion
Two Long necked
Canada geese
A floating reflection,
An implied illusion
A murky morning
Water like glass
Two wishes
Floating free
Arms spreading their seed
In wild ecstacy.
Two long necked
Canada geese
Floating in an implied illusion
A reflection
Refraction
Split second of the
Lens
Turned upside down
In an easy assignment
Off center
This implied illusion
A reflection of the glass
Off center
Crooked nose, split between the panes
Frozen shut
And the wind
Has a life of its own
A raging rascal
A scoundrel
Scorning everything in its
Bitter path
The past is a murky morning
With two long neck Canada geese
Floating in the reflection
Of implied illusion.
Flipped off center
What is real?
What if the car didn’t split the tree asunder
What if he still slept in his messy room?
Cuddled to warm furry Cholo
The two of them like brothers
Off center
An implied illusion.
Canada geese
A floating reflection,
An implied illusion
A murky morning
Water like glass
Two wishes
Floating free
Arms spreading their seed
In wild ecstacy.
Two long necked
Canada geese
Floating in an implied illusion
A reflection
Refraction
Split second of the
Lens
Turned upside down
In an easy assignment
Off center
This implied illusion
A reflection of the glass
Off center
Crooked nose, split between the panes
Frozen shut
And the wind
Has a life of its own
A raging rascal
A scoundrel
Scorning everything in its
Bitter path
The past is a murky morning
With two long neck Canada geese
Floating in the reflection
Of implied illusion.
Flipped off center
What is real?
What if the car didn’t split the tree asunder
What if he still slept in his messy room?
Cuddled to warm furry Cholo
The two of them like brothers
Off center
An implied illusion.
Tuesday, December 9, 2008
Sunday, December 7, 2008
The Ornaments
I wrote this several years ago. Its about Christmas and teenagers.
My seventeen-year-old daughter, DaNae, and I got our Christmas tree this weekend. I tortured myself in the dungeons of Wal-Mart buying eggnog, Tylenol, and a shopping cart full of things not on my list. The checkout stands from hell loomed before me. I picked the most hellacious line. Mrs. Bigfoot, a dumpling of a woman, had three carts with $400 worth of crap. Weighted down with shortcomings, such as lack of patience, I abandoned my cart behind her, and traipsed through bathrobes and books. By the time I checked out ($120) I had consumed a power drink, two Claussen pickles, and three mints.
When I got home, DaNae and her friend Shawn had already dragged a reluctant tree into the living room and manhandled it into the stand. Shawn went home, and DaNae and I retrieved the three boxes of Christmas goodies we stash at the tip-top of our pantry cabinets. Out of the boxes came the snowmen, nutcrackers, singing Santa clauses, a cow that moos merry Christmas, stuffed bears the size of pillows, angels, a funny little elf, old ribbons, and ornaments for the tree. One chocolate truffle, my son Nik’s, which he didn’t eat last year because we fought over the tree and he decided to hate the holiday, sat lonely in its box.
Our reluctant teenage tree, tall and rowdy, rebelled against us. Perhaps its mother hadn’t explained the greatest thing a tree could grow up to be was a Christmas tree. Maybe it wanted to wear the green, red, and yellow jalapeno lights that we decided to put in the kitchen windows. Whatever the cause, it waxed, waned, and fell on us with a crash of glass. Three ornaments died.
I held it in check as DaNae dashed off the ornaments. Together we lay it on its side and with a hammer spanked its bottom to the pain in the ass tree stand we argue with every year. We twisted screws, longed for glue or duck tape, even string to hang it with.
We leaned it slightly (I’m sure no one will notice) into the window and redecorated it. Our collection of ornaments grows every year, and each one evokes delicate memories of yesterdays. Nik used to move his little train along the strands of lights, and DaNae loved to play with the icicle man. It’s still her favorite. And together they’d work out their grief over their dad’s death by playing with nutcrackers turned into dolls, saying, sister, dad has died but we have grandma and grampa now. Or brother, let’s go to the North Pole and visit dad. He’s an angel.
When I came home this afternoon, the snowmen had moved to the windowsill of their own volition, looking longingly out as if they waited for their siblings to fall from the sky and whiten the outside trees. The stuffed bears jumped on the couch as if it were a trampoline, while the snowboard snowmen did flips and kickers off the piano. The icicle man slipped and slided down branches on the tree, shouting, “Wee, this is fun,” and the train buzzed along the lights with a chug-a-lug and a toot of its horn. The funny little elf danced a jig by an empty bottle of sparkling cider.
The littlest nutcrackers skirmished on the rug. The fisher-cracker with his red hat and long pole sat next to the aquarium. Two fish have gone missing. The king with his crown and red cape stood by the snow queen with the light up crown. The drummer drummed next to the pied piper, and the singing Santa bellowed out “Come they told me parumpapumpum” in harmony with the cow. The red and the green swordsmen parried on the coffee table, with an “On guard nut” and “Take that you cracker.” The Mexican nutcracker sang feliz navida, off key, to an angel hanging on the tree. She glanced glass smiles at him, crystal laughs sparkling out her mouth. The football player jumped and jumped for the 49er football hanging on a middle branch shouting, “Why can’t I be a black nutcracker like Jerry Rice so I can catch the football and take it over the top of the tree for a touchdown.”
The oldest nutcracker, he has a missing arm and broken jaw, stood his post by the door. An empty chocolate truffle box lay beside him. Chocolate smeared his red lips.
My seventeen-year-old daughter, DaNae, and I got our Christmas tree this weekend. I tortured myself in the dungeons of Wal-Mart buying eggnog, Tylenol, and a shopping cart full of things not on my list. The checkout stands from hell loomed before me. I picked the most hellacious line. Mrs. Bigfoot, a dumpling of a woman, had three carts with $400 worth of crap. Weighted down with shortcomings, such as lack of patience, I abandoned my cart behind her, and traipsed through bathrobes and books. By the time I checked out ($120) I had consumed a power drink, two Claussen pickles, and three mints.
When I got home, DaNae and her friend Shawn had already dragged a reluctant tree into the living room and manhandled it into the stand. Shawn went home, and DaNae and I retrieved the three boxes of Christmas goodies we stash at the tip-top of our pantry cabinets. Out of the boxes came the snowmen, nutcrackers, singing Santa clauses, a cow that moos merry Christmas, stuffed bears the size of pillows, angels, a funny little elf, old ribbons, and ornaments for the tree. One chocolate truffle, my son Nik’s, which he didn’t eat last year because we fought over the tree and he decided to hate the holiday, sat lonely in its box.
Our reluctant teenage tree, tall and rowdy, rebelled against us. Perhaps its mother hadn’t explained the greatest thing a tree could grow up to be was a Christmas tree. Maybe it wanted to wear the green, red, and yellow jalapeno lights that we decided to put in the kitchen windows. Whatever the cause, it waxed, waned, and fell on us with a crash of glass. Three ornaments died.
I held it in check as DaNae dashed off the ornaments. Together we lay it on its side and with a hammer spanked its bottom to the pain in the ass tree stand we argue with every year. We twisted screws, longed for glue or duck tape, even string to hang it with.
We leaned it slightly (I’m sure no one will notice) into the window and redecorated it. Our collection of ornaments grows every year, and each one evokes delicate memories of yesterdays. Nik used to move his little train along the strands of lights, and DaNae loved to play with the icicle man. It’s still her favorite. And together they’d work out their grief over their dad’s death by playing with nutcrackers turned into dolls, saying, sister, dad has died but we have grandma and grampa now. Or brother, let’s go to the North Pole and visit dad. He’s an angel.
When I came home this afternoon, the snowmen had moved to the windowsill of their own volition, looking longingly out as if they waited for their siblings to fall from the sky and whiten the outside trees. The stuffed bears jumped on the couch as if it were a trampoline, while the snowboard snowmen did flips and kickers off the piano. The icicle man slipped and slided down branches on the tree, shouting, “Wee, this is fun,” and the train buzzed along the lights with a chug-a-lug and a toot of its horn. The funny little elf danced a jig by an empty bottle of sparkling cider.
The littlest nutcrackers skirmished on the rug. The fisher-cracker with his red hat and long pole sat next to the aquarium. Two fish have gone missing. The king with his crown and red cape stood by the snow queen with the light up crown. The drummer drummed next to the pied piper, and the singing Santa bellowed out “Come they told me parumpapumpum” in harmony with the cow. The red and the green swordsmen parried on the coffee table, with an “On guard nut” and “Take that you cracker.” The Mexican nutcracker sang feliz navida, off key, to an angel hanging on the tree. She glanced glass smiles at him, crystal laughs sparkling out her mouth. The football player jumped and jumped for the 49er football hanging on a middle branch shouting, “Why can’t I be a black nutcracker like Jerry Rice so I can catch the football and take it over the top of the tree for a touchdown.”
The oldest nutcracker, he has a missing arm and broken jaw, stood his post by the door. An empty chocolate truffle box lay beside him. Chocolate smeared his red lips.
Thursday, December 4, 2008
Dear Parent
Dear Parent,
I tried to save my son, Niko, from alcoholism/addiction. In this day and age, that’s nearly impossible, especially when he came home and said, “So and so let’s us drink and smoke pot at their house, what’s wrong with you, Mom.”
My parents let us party at their house. They thought they could keep us safe. We told them we did it only on special occasions. What we didn’t tell them was that waking up constituted a celebration. They basically gave us their permission to do whatever we wanted, whenever and wherever we wanted.
Niko, my beautiful, intelligent, generous and kind son had everything to live for. But because some adults think it’s ok to let children party at their houses, he was able to obtain alcohol. And it killed him.
I go to bed crying, I wake up sobbing, and I think about him all the time. Worse yet, I have a recurring nightmare. Some boy goes to a “cool” parents house, drinks alcohol, gets in his car, drives down the road, and hits my daughter, killing her.
Sandpoint lost two wonderful young men this year to alcohol. I have signed a pledge stating that I will stand for teenagers excellence and serve them snacks, juice, and soda pop at my house, and that I will not allow them to drink or drug on my premises. I urge parents everywhere to take a proactive stance, to be positive parental role models and to join me in this pledge.
Sincerely,
Desire` Aguirre
I tried to save my son, Niko, from alcoholism/addiction. In this day and age, that’s nearly impossible, especially when he came home and said, “So and so let’s us drink and smoke pot at their house, what’s wrong with you, Mom.”
My parents let us party at their house. They thought they could keep us safe. We told them we did it only on special occasions. What we didn’t tell them was that waking up constituted a celebration. They basically gave us their permission to do whatever we wanted, whenever and wherever we wanted.
Niko, my beautiful, intelligent, generous and kind son had everything to live for. But because some adults think it’s ok to let children party at their houses, he was able to obtain alcohol. And it killed him.
I go to bed crying, I wake up sobbing, and I think about him all the time. Worse yet, I have a recurring nightmare. Some boy goes to a “cool” parents house, drinks alcohol, gets in his car, drives down the road, and hits my daughter, killing her.
Sandpoint lost two wonderful young men this year to alcohol. I have signed a pledge stating that I will stand for teenagers excellence and serve them snacks, juice, and soda pop at my house, and that I will not allow them to drink or drug on my premises. I urge parents everywhere to take a proactive stance, to be positive parental role models and to join me in this pledge.
Sincerely,
Desire` Aguirre
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
