name poem

Desire
Escapes me
Summer saps
Innocence with its death
Rays and I say my son is
Everywhere but here.

poetry

I went to a poetry workshop this evening and read a poem from this blog, and tomorrow I will read "Open Sky." I don't consider myself a poet, but still. Words seem to diffuse the pain; somehow they soften the blow. Perhaps, the act of creation helps smooth my rough edges.

I cried when I read, in front of people I had just met. Whatever. I don't care. Perhaps my words will help ease someone else's pain. Perhaps sharing my experience can soften their rough edges.

I don't know. It's late and the summer crawls along. I weed and water and try to train my sister's horse. I sleep a lot and have read a bunch of books. Diversions. Tricks to tick the tock and survive the day.

Nik's poppies have blossomed and yellow lillies brighten his garden. The rock walkway is almost complete and I made a rough start on the wall. I can't move the heaviest rocks. And Nik's not here to help me.

We went to San Pedro and walked along the beach. The boys said that you used to ride for hours along the coast line. We hiked down a cliff and then everyone took a handful of your ashes and found a spot to set you free.

I remembered when we went to Hawaii. You loved the tide pools, and so I let you go in a tide pool. Hermit crabs scampered across the rocks and the wind tasted of salt (or was that just my tears?)

We miss you, Nik. Everyday.

the morning

I feel your presence when the wind whips through my hair, billowing your shirt tails about my waist. I confiscated the gray one with black checkers and short sleeves along with your pajama bottoms. Comfort clothes. They don’t smell like you anymore, but still. Your essence lingers.
The birds frolic in the yard, dive-bombing, dancing, playing tag. The General, a red winged blackbird, perches on top of the bird feeder Aunt Jenny and Grandma bought for your memorial garden. A regal fellow, commanding presence, piercing song, who picks out the black sunflower seeds, scattering everything else on the ground.

I long to run my hands through your thick hair and listen to you play the bass. Sometimes, this wretched ache in my heart threatens to devour me. Sometimes, I want to let go and join you. Sometimes, I crawl in my bed in the middle of the day, and my tears fill the pillow and I have to turn it over or I’ll drown.

And then, I go outside and dig up rocks, catching their edges on the shovel head, prying them from the ground, lugging them in the wheel barrow, and fitting them in the walkway like the pieces of a puzzle. Two strawberries have ripened, and the blueberries thicken on the bushes. The work, monotonous yet somehow soothing, seems to smooth over my rough edges. It helps me sleep at night.

I hugged you in my dreams. You were tall and golden, whole and happy. You laughed, and I danced in your shadow.

Daylight pierces through the drapes; white wisps of clouds coat an otherwise blue sky, and the swallows continue their waltz, wild and free, innocent.

I miss you.

Happy Birthday

DaNae and I drove wrote Nik a letter and tied them to balloons. We drove up to Schweitzer Mountain and released them. They flew so high. Finally, they disappeared and we headed down the hill and stopped at the crash site. We shared a cup of white mocha latte and left a third of it for Nik, along with a birthday balloon and some flowers.

I made it through the death day and his birthday. I bought him a blue spruce and planted it in the front yard. I moved rocks into the memorial garden and planted some flowers.

It's hard to swallow my anger. His friends go on, drinking and drugging in his name. Didn't anyone learn anything? At times, I hate them for their stupidity, for not taking his keys, for letting him drive that night, for getting to live when he died.

I miss his laugh. I miss his smile. I miss his smell. I cry my tears; I graduated from LCSC; I think about him every single day.

The Croscuses

Winter’s bitter bullets have lost their grip on the ground and I can hear the birds singing in the meadow. The receding snow line left a wake of last years litter and created a river in the backyard, and the snowplow girl dug the plow to deep and mowed the lawn with gravel.

I hiked up the ridge that separates my property from big John’s in search of rocks. Deer had already cut a path through bracken and brush, and I followed their sign, skirting over dead wood and jumping over the muck and mush. Cholo, my son’s black lab, misses making dog angels in the snow but enjoyed wading in the new river.

It’s important to be prepared when you hike. I wore boots with good traction, a baseball cap to protect me from the brilliant sun, and carried jelly bellies (popcorn and peanut butter are my favorites) and the green water bottle my daughter gave me for my 50th birthday in my backpack.

We traversed along the ridge and then headed up toward bear cave. Although we had spotted bear sign down by Herrmann Lake, I hadn’t seen any around my place, and figured fearless Cholo would protect me from all harm.

The annoying “cheeseburger” birds harped at me, a woodpecker added percussion, and a goose couple blasted their trumpet duo as they flew toward Herrmann Lake.

The cave, a shelter of rocks really, offered some shade. I sat and ate a couple (ok, about 20) jelly bellies and gulped some water. Amazingly enough, my bad knee gave me no grief, and I hadn’t broken a sweat.

I picked up two heart shaped rocks, one with a white line down the middle, the other, a bit bigger and deep purple, and stuffed them in my bag. My son Nik loved rocks. One summer we drove to Calif. and stopped at numerous rest spots. He searched for volcanic rocks and saved them in the trunk of our car. We went to Hawaii and he packed sand and stones in a plastic bag; his suitcase weighed twice as much on the return trip.

I taught Nik how to drive on the back roads of Marijuana knob. We combed the dirt roads for garden rocks; loading up the truck with slate earned him time behind the wheel. When I moved to Sagle last fall, I dug up the prettiest ones and hauled them to the new house. The neighbors must have thought I was crazy, because the land here is already rock heavy.

But the rocks I moved were heavy with memories, and I wanted them for Nik’s memorial garden. We intend to build a rock wall around the perimeter, which means I get to collect rocks wherever I go.

Cholo and I headed down the ridge, and I picked up two more heart shaped stones. We got home, and I added my plunder to the growing pile of rocks near the garden.
And now that spring has sprung, I can start breaking ground. The shovel feels good in my hands and the sun radiates a warmth I haven’t felt all winter. New grass spits out splotches of green on an otherwise brown horizon, and I saw crocuses dotting the landscape.

Next spring, the crocuses will bloom in Nik’s garden, next to his tree, the memorial block Monique made, the rocks Michelle painted, the glass bird feeder, the no moose crossing sign and snowboard bench. His ashes will feed the earth, his essence will linger, and his spirit will soar with the birds.

11 months

Winter's bitter bullets

Winter’s bitter bullets are loosing their grip on the ground. Birds have returned to the meadow. I can hear their song. Can you? I gave a speech on how to act when someone dies. If a pin had dropped, I would have heard it fall. And then they all clapped. I wonder if any of them learned anything? If my words will encourage them to attend the next memorial that rears its ugly head into their busy schedules.

There was standing room only at your memorial. Did you realize how loved you were?

I digress. I feel like I’m wearing tap shoes and dancing through your death. Sometimes it’s a soft shuffle and sometimes it’s a jazzy reverberation driven on by tears that exhausts me. Last night I went to bed by 8 p.m.

I haven’t seen any signs of you lately, although I try to remain open to for that experience. I’m studying parental grief for my senior research project, and that has helped. Everyone I’ve asked wants to participate, and they all want to attend my presentation. It’s very touching.

But nothing takes away the hole your death has created. Like a giant vacuum that sucks away at my core.

I think about you everyday, Nik. And I miss your smile.

Every Day

by DaNae

She wants everyone to remember him; but its hard for the young to hold unto pain. We all try to use it to our advantage but afterwards we feel guilty, soiling the loved ones in our hearts. I'm sure they remember his name, and think of him occaisonally. Sometimes they laugh and maybe more often a lump forms in their throat, and the only way to make it go away is to cry, or pretend that everything is okay. And I think that a lot of them didn't learn the lesson Niko failed at. His death needs to have meaning for my mom, wants people to live and not throw themselves behind drugs. If ther is no point in his death, what can we do but continue to grieve? I miss him. Everyday.

Pain

I miss you so much. Sometimes, I can't wrap my brain around the missing. It's too big. You were so full of glorious life. How can you not be at all?

Headwall

Nik keeps drifting into my thoughts. Something about the bitter snow that is finally falling out of the sky like candy, innocent and free, and snowboarding down the slopes of Schweitzer in the middle of a storm. I remember buying Nik his first board, a used, child-sized Burton that I had to buckle to his foot every time he got off the lift. Nik snowboarded liked the Roman god Mercury with wings on his feet and helmet. He had a grace that seemed to defy gravity.

Ryan, his best friend and kindred spirit, already delivered some of Nik’s ashes to the South Bowl shoots, terrain I never could sojourn. I’ve waited for new snow to bring my boy back to Headwall, where he would always challenge me, “Come on Mom, let’s do Headwall. You can do it. Follow me.”

He forced me out of my comfort level, showing me new terrain, riding ahead of me and then waiting above a cliff or rock so he could wow me with his expertise. I liked the rear position, and like a mother hen, I’d keep track of my babies. Plus, I didn’t like him to see me board. I’m that slow.

We used to go up with their school. Once the principal saw me ski, he made an allowance and let me snowboard (the kids had to ski). I led packs of rookies to the backside, herding them into the Outback for a cup of hot chocolate, and then delivering them back to the bus. Once, Nik arranged for me to take his group, and they took me to Terrain Park so they could practice their tricks. I went through the half-pipe without falling. We went night skiing with discounted tickets, packing microwave popcorn and cups of soup. It was something we all loved to do, and eventually, I saved my pennies and every year bought season passes as Christmas presents.

Schweitzer is best in the middle of a storm. The fair weather skiers stay home and I can make fresh tracks every run. This year has been difficult. The winter started with a bang and then slammed the brakes on. I’ve kept a baggy with Nik’s ashes in my pocket, waiting for the perfect storm.

My friend, Monique, my brother, Rex, and daughter, DaNae and I loaded our gear and headed up this morning. We made fresh tracks on Loophole, and talked about bringing Nik to Headwall. We decided it was too crunchy off the groomers, and planned to send Nik from the top of Headwall, and then ride down the Ridge.
We peered over the edge of the run. The sky, laden with gray snow, felt heavy. I pulled the bag of ash out, and took my glove off. My goggles blurred with my tears as I set some of Nik’s ashes free. He flew down the slope, innocent and free.
Monique looked at me, and said, “Let’s do it.”

She dropped first, and DaNae and Rex followed her. As always, I came last. I stopped at Nik’s rock and emptied the bag. He did flips and kickers in the wind, and then, he was gone.

“Well, Nik got us to do Headwall,” Monique said.

“Yes, best run of the day,” Rex said.

I turned right, toward the quad, performing my famous (in my head) wide-angle turn, the one that keeps me from going too fast; the one that ensures I won’t fall and break my neck. We headed back to the Quad, took one more run, and then headed in for tea.

Birthday Present

I turned 50 yesterday. My sister and friend Monique planned a girls party, and we ate fabulous food, told stories, and laughed plenty. Mom gave me her best China, packed in a storage container, and Jenny gave me a killer set of tools. I cried a little when Bob Dylan sang “Where have you been my blue eyed son” in the background. That’s always been my favorite Dylan song, and of course, it made me think of Nik.

Last night, Nik came to me in my dreams. He had on a white mask. He seemed surprised to see me, and didn’t say anything. He reached across the table, and clasped my hand. I woke up sobbing, but was grateful for his gift.

Confronting Grief

The car, traveling at least 70 miles an hour, rolled and flipped, ejecting Nikolas Jesus Aguirre through the windshield. He had a blood alcohol of .17, which matched his age. The bottom rear end of the Ford Explorer hit a tree with a circumference of 30 inches 12 feet above the ground, splitting the tree in two. The car and the tree landed on Nikolas, crushing him. He died May 8, 2008, a day before his 18th birthday.
Sometimes it feels like my heart has been hacked with a rusty razor blade. My grief spurts out like wasted blood, like the rain that rattles the roof, and my tears spill unheeded. I don’t understand anything and I hate feeling like this. I would have gladly died for my son, Nik.

At first, I thought I’d drop out of school and never write again. And then, I decided to live. I wrote letters to Oprah, trying to find a grand finale and spread the message, don’t drink and drive, and for Nik’s sake, wear a seatbelt. She sent me a form letter reply. I ranted, raved, made a video, joined a community activist group, became a student ambassador and created a blog, attempting to find meaning in my son’s death.

And just when I think I have grief licked, some young man walks down the street with Nik’s smile. The wretched lump in my chest, the weak knees and the buckets of tears that cascade down my cheeks returns, uninvited, unintended and unwanted.
I have to confront my grief everyday. I wear my son’s memorial necklace like an amulet, a luck charm and a potent reminder of his sweet smile. Better yet, I’ve decided to do a good deed every day in his memory, so at the end of the day, I can say, I am a better person because he died.

I told my friend Wendell to call his estranged son, and because of that, they now have a relationship. I shoveled roofs for friends in need, visited people I hadn’t seen in years, and had a guest come for a weekend. I plowed my neighbor’s driveway, bought my dog a toy duck, and took my daughter out to dinner. Sometimes, it’s as easy as putting the shopping cart back, and sometimes, it’s as simple as saying hello to a senior citizen.

Everyone dies. And those of us who remain can make the world a better place to live in by remembering our lost loved ones and doing something nice for someone else in their memory.

It doesn’t take the hurt away, but it brings a touch of sanity to the grief process.

crash site

Whatever happened to forever and always?
They drift and melt like the snow.
I can't get you out of my mind
Why didn't you wear your seat belt?

blood

My grief spurts out like wasted blood, like brown snot, like the rain that rattles the roof, and my tears spill unheeded. I don't understand anything and I hate feeling like this. So lost. I want my blue eyed king to walk through the door. I want to hold him tight, to savor his scent, his soft skin, his low voice.

I think about you every day, Nik. About all the times I let you down. Wasted words that cut and burned. I'm so sorry. I wish you were here. I would have died for you, son. Nothing takes away this emptiness.