Masquerade

I don't want to go outside where the temperature dips below zero. I'm wearing my new nightgown and socks (thanks Mom and Fran) and red robe (thanks sis). The house, cozy and warm, with a ray of sunlight filtering above the Christmas tree, casts a shadow around the stained glass horse and prisms off my gorgeous amethyst window pendant, smells like Mayan coffee, which I just brewed.

I'm glad the girls pushed back one of the boards separating their side of the barn from the hay, so they can pull down pieces of grass to quiet their rumbling, fat and furry bellies.

Ok, I finally went out to feed the girls and get wood. Thank goodness the wind has no howl in it.

I'm taking Sandra out to lunch this afternoon, and when I come home, I'll hem up my velvet black pants and get ready for the Masquerade Ball.

I purchased a hand crafted mask in Cabo San Jose for the occasion, but really, sometimes I feel like I always wear a mask to cover the question mark that squeezes my heart like a vice.

Thirty-eight women were selected to attend Hedgebrook, an all female writing retreat. My name did not appear on the list. I use the skin cream that my niece Amin made to salve the new wound created by another rejection. I’d hoped to work on “Sifting Through Ashes” there, perhaps find a mentor or editor to help me complete it.

My demons have escaped from the attic and dance with delight. What makes me think I deserve such an honor? Who cares about my words, my story, my heartache, the demons chant. Did I not murder my son by buying him the car that killed him? Instead of setting up more boundaries, I gave him his freedom and as a result, he died.

Words elude me, so I finished two oil paintings. I kept painting the same image, the beaver pond where DaNae and I scattered some of Nik's ashes. The oil paint has a rich, thick texture that feels good on my skin. I couldn’t get the grass right, so I composed "Storm Horses," inspired by one of Viggo Mortenson's photos. And I actually like the results.

I'll don my new mask this evening, relishing the heavy leather that covers my grief. I’ll haul food to the Masquerade, help Jean set up, hang out for awhile, get a couple dances in, drive home, stoke the fire, and then head to Jenny's to play Bananas and watch fireworks when 2011 dawns.

Cabo

I am a reluctant traveler. But Nik's death has at least taught me to jump over my fear, to say yes to adventure and to friends and family. And so, without any hemming or hawing, I flew to Cabo with my daughter DaNae, fabulous friend, Monique, and her daughter, Kendra.

Cabo was wind and surf and sand and alcohol. The Sea of Cortez stretched out across my horizon. Ad infinitum. Everyone went out drinking but I sat inside and relished some alone time to savor the experience of walking through shop after shop where vendors said, “Senora, come inside to buy something you don’t need,” and the heat of the day sat on my shoulder like a warm hand.

I kept seeing Nik in the Cholo’s, the Vatos, the surfboarders and the ninos that sold trinkets on the beach. I saw him in the dark eye brows, the taste of seviche, the full Mexican smiles and in my daughter’s grin. And thoughts of Nik always leave an empty space, a question mark, next to my heart.

The sand filled my sandals and stuck to the crevisses of my skin, between my toes and in my underpants. A textured roughness that reminded me, yes, I am alive here in this dimension, with the blue skies burning my skin, trudging over this terrain, tripping over cobblestones, trotting horses with the sunset, snorkling with sea lions and skipping with waves.

We took a glass bottom boat to the great arc that divides the Sea of Cortez from the Pacific. I saw Nik on top of the arc—a halo, an angel, an illusion created by the sun filling this place in time with his memory. And I wish he was there on that spot, laughing and body surfing with his sister, the two of them tied together into eternity, safe and sound.

Colic

The pies look excellent. I had to make the pie dough twice, and even though the filling looked to thick, I poured it into the dishes and stuck them in the oven. After they had baked for five minutes, I realized I had doubled the amount of pumpkin, but not the rest of the ingredients.

I pulled those pies out of the oven and scooped out the filling, adding two more eggs, another cup of cream, brown sugar and spices. It looked more like pumpkin pie goop, so I poured it back into the dishes and baked them for 45 minutes.

Patches must have gotten into some pumpkin. When I went out to throw the horses their dinner, she lay in the barn and wouldn’t get up. Darkness descended and the temperature hovered at one degree.

I offered her oats, but she wouldn’t stand, so I kept bothering her until she got to her feet. But she would not move. I ran inside and called Greg.

“Desire`, do you have any banameen?”

“No, I have some bute, but it’s in pill form, and I’d have to mix it with water and oats, which she won’t eat.”

“Do you have a winter blanket?”

“No. I buried it with Heart.”

“Give John a call. I’m sure he has some medicine for her.”

I thought Patches had slipped on the ice and hurt herself. But when John said colic, I knew what I had to do. By the time he arrived, I had haltered Patches and was walking her in the roundish pen.

The kids didn’t show any interest in riding horses, but whenever an equine needed vetting, they always assisted me. Especially Nik. He didn’t mind holding a horse for me or applying salve. He hosed down wounds and mixed medicines. He helped me load them into the horse trailer and if necessary, he walked them in circles until they pooped.

I didn’t have Nik or DaNae around to help me, but I had John. He listened to Patches stomach and determined she had a mild case of colic. He gave her the shot, looked at her lips, and put the blanket on her.

“You need to walk her for 10 minutes, then go inside and warm up for 10 minutes, and then walk her again until she poops. Tie her up when you go inside so you’ll know if she’s gone. Are you cold?”

“Not yet. I have this great airmen suit my brother gave me.”

“Here’s the number for the vet. If she goes down, call your sister over here to help you hold her up, and call the vet. And call me, too, if you need help walking her. Give us a jingle when she poops.”

At 8 p.m., the temperatures dipped to -5 degrees and Patches still hadn’t taken a shit. I added a layer of clothes to my ensemble, staying inside for 15 minutes instead of 10. By 9 p.m., we were down to -8 degrees and I stayed inside for 20 minutes and only walked her for 8. On my last outing, I prayed to Allah to let the horse shit, and she complied at 9:57 p.m.

The cold seeped through my layers of clothes like a wet rag. My knee, back and shoulder ached, so I didn’t dance a jig. The lead rope latch had froze, so I unhooked the halter and set Patches free for the evening. An almost full moon provided light, and I watched the steam rise from Patches patch of horseshit. Thanking Allah and John, I crawled under the wire and trudged back into the warmth of the house.

It’s cold this morning. I’ve kept the water in the kitchen sink dripping to prevent the pipes from freezing, and I have both electric heaters roaring. I’ll need to purchase another one if this weather is a forecast for the future.

All the windows but the ones in the living room are covered with plastic. The view, limited, matches my mood, gray and foggy. Tomorrow is Thanksgiving and Nik should be here in the kitchen making his famous fondue. Instead, it’s just me, Cholo and the cats, huddled together to keep warm.

Cold

Tuesday, November 23, 2010
I thought I would have to plow this morning, but the wind blew the snow away, along with the tarps on my hay, a cardboard box, the top off the horses’ oats, and for a short time, the power to the house. The weatherman promises single digit temperatures with a wind chill dipping it into the negative zone. Cold.

Last night, as the power flickered on and off, I dug out stubs of candles, matches, a flashlight, extra batteries and the kerosene lanterns. I filled up a jug of water and the teapot right before the power forced me into total darkness.

The wind sounded like it had a voracious appetite and I feared it would rip the roof off. Cholo curled beside me on the couch and the cats wrapped themselves around the base of the wood stove.

When we lived on Samuels Road, the power went out for 24 hours. Our pellet stove required electricity to generate heat, and it didn’t take long for the house to feel like the inside of a refrigerator. The next-door neighbors, who for some reason still had electricity, called and invited us over to spend the night. I drove DaNae and Nik over, it was that cold, but came home and bundled myself up in a sleeping bag and quilt. To the kids, it was an adventure; to me, one more thing on my plate to survive.

I plan to warm the house this afternoon by baking home made pumpkin pies for Thanksgiving dinner. I turned the three pumpkins I grew in Nik’s garden into pumpkin mush, and bought the ingredients from the grocery store yesterday afternoon.

DaNae and Nik grew up on Grandma’s pies, and she would grow pumpkins and render them into delicious pies that the kids drooled over. They would go over her house to help her bake, and would make sugar lollipops with their fingers. They took turns sifting, measuring, stirring and beating. She spoiled them, and they wouldn’t eat store bought pies or pumpkin pie made with canned filling.

When Nik lived in San Pedro, he carried on the tradition by making pumpkin pie for their Thanksgiving dinner. He called me for Grandma’s recipe, and I read off the ingredients and directions over our cell phones. They couldn’t find any pumpkins at the store, so he had to resort to canned filling. But he filled the pie with his love, and I was told it was delicious.

I bought Nik a Thanksgiving apron one year, and I will don it today in his honor. I will fill the pies with our love, coveting our traditions and his memory.

Get into the game

Ok, get into the game. Stop taking vacations from yourself, take a vacation for yourself. The meds haven’t worked, don’t work, won’t work. Get over it. Get over yourself. Get on with your life. Dance with the gypsies, study the stars. Buy yourself a nice treat. You don’t have to spend a lot of money. Peruse the dollar store. Better yet, shop at the local thrift store. Dress up for Halloween. Go to the movies, one you want to see. Eat some popcorn with extra butter and brewers yeast. Take a walk and skip through the fallen leaves. Go ride a horse or a bike or a skateboard. Go to Mexico if the opportunity arises. Say yes to friends and no to takers. Stay away from doctors and shrinks, they will brainwash you and hang you out to dry. They don’t have the key. You do. Ride the wind. Snowboard. Clear off your drawing desk and put pencil to paper. Don’t say you are an artist and a writer, be an artist and a writer. Do the work. Create. Take a nap. Read a book. Love, laugh, avoid clichés, like stop to smell the roses. Be a rose. Take a hot bath. Drink ginger tea with honey. Go to meetings. Be true to yourself.

Slipstream

Everything flies into the slipstream on overdrive, hurling evil thoughts at my core, chiseling away with a hammer of venomous ideas--things I'd rather not think about. My failures and losses. No one listens because they don't want to hear.

Thanks

I'm so grateful for my family, friends and support groups for holding me up when I can't stand. I love you all.

Going, going, gone

Dark dawn followed by dim light.
Magpies plunge from silhouetted
trees and power lines,
their wings swooping
in graceful arcs.

A train howls out its old lament,
“going going gone”
never stopping to say hello
much less goodbye.

(Goodbyes are over rated)

I ate some blueberries for breakfast,
squishing the skin,
black like the wings of magpies,
between my teeth,
savoring the bitter sweet slice of life.

(His life too short)

And dropped some lavender on the wood stove
the sharp scent reminiscent
of that persistent pain in my heart
that howls out its old lament.
Going going gone.

In Loving Memory

Guilty as charged

I long to reach out and touch you, Niko. Buster sits on the side of the bathtub observing the bubbles with a golden gleam in his cat eyes. He has white fur that curls from his ears and long whiskers. I adore him. Sometimes I think he is Niko reincarnated to console me and Cholo. I don’t really believe this, but somehow the thought comforts me. When he licks Cholo’s ears, I can’t help but think of the way Nik cleaned them out and playfully bit them.
I plod along, sometimes in my bulletproof led suit that protects and isolates me at the same time. I have broad shoulders that bare the weight grudgingly. Sometimes it is hard to get out of bed, and sometimes I envision a gun in my hand with one bullet that would put me out of my misery.
But that, I think, would be cheating. And the moment, glancingly brief, darts away when I see Buster cuddle on the couch next to Cholo or when I force myself outside to ride a horse.
Life is like that. The scenes keep changing. And I still haven’t left my mark. Haven’t finished, much less sold, the book to be or saved the world. Shit, I couldn’t even save my own son, what makes me think I can accomplish anything of note?
Today I feel like flour in a sifter. The hot bath smoothed out the tension but left my skin wrinkled. Two flies hound me, landing on the computer screen, my arm, my fedora. Three roses in mixed stages of their blossom remind me that life, is indeed, fleeting and can be oh so sweet yet riddled with thorns.
A part of me believes that something grand must be on my horizon, that God has not forsaken me and that I have a purpose. The committee that lives in my head charges into battle, screaming obscenities and laughing at my hopes and dreams. They call me a loser, a liar and a hypocrite. I bow my head to their accusations. Stand in front of my mirror with a towel wrapped around my thick hair. My reflection amuses me. Who is this sad woman with the red blotches on her right cheek, the somber blue eyes lined in pain and the stained teeth? What happened to my youth?
Guilty as charged, I say. I am, after all, human.

Something in the air smells a little like salvation

Perhaps the rain has washed away all sins
And flowers will bloom to cover the scars

But its hard to give a dam
To focus
To create…who will be my salvation?
They took a blood sample this morning
And I thought,
Why do I still get to bleed while my son
Is ashes in the wet garden?

His garden
Where everything seems to bloom and grow
Tall and strong

I tell the weeds to move along
And the rain, hopefully dumping buckets of my salvation into the ground
Where I can soak it up like a hungry Iris
And learn to live without his smile.

The Jet Ski

Nik begged me to rent a jet ski. I didn’t like them, and I knew he would want me to let him drive it once we ventured out into the lake. I told him we could rent a kayak or a canoe, a sailboat or I’d pay for him to go parasailing. But he only wanted to go out on the jet-ski, and so, we didn’t do anything.

Last week I had the opportunity to ride on a jet-ski. It sounded better than working or cutting wood, so I said, sure. Monique, Jeannie and I went from City Beach to Priest River. The jet-ski felt like riding on the back of a motorcycle on water and made me feel free. The water fizzled like soda pop and 1,000 rainbows arced behind us like magic. Jeannie got it up to 35 mph (she said it can do 70) and we bounced over the waves like a tennis ball. It was amazing.

We stopped and had lunch at Willow Bay, and Jeannie informed me that when we got back to the beach, I was to ride the jet-ski (adding that she has only dumped it once).

But I didn’t want to drive the damn thing. All I could think of was Nik. Why didn’t I take Nik out on one when I had the chance? I could have told him we would go, but only I could drive it because he was too young. We would have had a blast.

By the time we returned to the beachhead, I had made up my mind to give it a whirl. Jeannie showed me how to operate it and how to get back on if I crashed. I decided not to crash. I also decided to drive it for Nik.

Jeannie pushed me off and I started it up. We lurched past the bouys and then, I cranked up the gas. I skipped over the water like a flat rock, jumping over waves and wakes. I headed toward Hope, laughing and crying at the same time.

Nik and I got it up to 35 mph. We made a big circle and looped our way back to the beach. We didn’t put on the brake and we didn’t dump it in the water. Jeannie waved me in, and I brought it to shore. She jumped on the back, and we drove it back to the dock, loaded it on the trailer, and headed home.

Thank-you Nik for giving me the courage to drive the jet-ski. I miss you, every day.

Ashes

How can you be gone? You were so beautiful. So vitally alive. A strong presence. And now, all that remains is ashes in a box and a hole in my heart that sometimes threatens to consume me.

Our lives are as weak as paper burning

Picture this: paper burning. Flames lick the edges. They curl, brown, and peal away like dead skin. Smoke saturates, encompasses and crowns the air. Black appears, consumes and eats the white, while the yellow fire grows with power, grins triumphantly in gold and laughs in red/orange/crimson.

Picture this: the car misses the turn and leaves the road, overturning. Everything is flying, the boy behind the wheel, the bikes in the back, the cell phone that I never find. Tumbling, tossing, flying momentarily with eerie grace. Smacking the tree, eating the ground; the tree sheers and cries with anguish. The boy dies with the night and the bright stars as his only witness.

The wheels spin and then, all is silence.

Our lives are as weak as paper burning. One snow capped Iris blooms in his garden, like a lost angel, and baby blue swallows sing a hungry song from the bird-house. I long to look in, to see them in their innocence. I satisfy myself with sitting on the snowboard bench, witnessing the proud parents dance, watching them bring food to their young.

Charlotte's Web

Muffled in memories, I walk my brain to the Panida, where DaNae and Nik Aguirre, the youngest goslings in “Charlotte’s Web” made their debut as “Petunia” and “Buster.” Garbed in soft yellow cloth and bright puddle boots, they marched across the stage in a tight train of feathers.

I rewind the video and watch the play with fresh eyes. DaNae, now 22, still loves the theater and will make another debut in a play at the Panida in October, while her younger brother, Nik, died in a car accident a day before his 18th birthday.

The tape rolls on, and the goslings scamper across the stage. They fall like a stack of dominoes, and the mother goose swings each one up and they call out their name. “Petunia,” DaNae says, grinning triumphantly. Buster, in typical Nik fashion, scoots backwards on his bottom away from his parent. She captures him and the audience laughs. “Buster,” Nik shouts. The audience claps.

Bogged Down

The rain and mud didn’t detour me from trying out my new chainsaw. And when Big Blue high centered on a hidden stump I finished the job by burying three of her wheels into the bog.

I used to plow the driveway out with an ATV, and got it stuck at least once a year. Niko would always come out and help dig me out. He’d tell me to go inside and take a break. When a neighbor slid into the ditch, Niko would go out into the dark and shovel them out. He could be difficult sometimes, but he had a big heart and never grumbled at having to rescue me or some stranger. And he never asked for nor expected any compensation. He did it because he wanted to.

But Nik wasn’t here to unstick me this time, so I called my brother, Rex. And like Nik, he came with a smile, a shovel, and the tools to help me. Plus, he reminded me of the time he had gotten stuck in the backyard, assuring me I wasn’t the only person to find themselves in such a muddy situation.

I’m glad I have family and friends to help me through the bogs.

We miss you, Nik. Every day.

Anger turned upside down = depression

It pisses me off that so few mention your name. That they put me on a pedestal because I didn't relapse when you died. That the rain falls as surely as my tears. That you died and I miss you everyday. That I didn't get a big enough scholarship to go to grad school. Didn't I work hard for it? Don't I deserve it? When I was in college, I had a goal, and that kept me going in a positive direction. That gave me a purpose. And now, I feel lost. And anger burns, so I hold it in and now I have a blister growing in my brain. But even the blister doesn't erase the guilt, the loss, the hopelessness I feel. I'm like a dog paddling through the sewer and the smile that I pasted on my face to fake my way through every hour has turned into a bitter grimace. Why didn't you wear your seatbelt?

I can't seem to forget...

She barfs words into the phone
I hold them to my ear
And scream silence into a purple pillow
She can’t see that I can’t get no satisfaction
With the birthday blues
May the month of mixed blessings
And dreams built like clichés falling
into a void of skipped numbers and
things I can’t seem to forget.

Mixed up month

May is a mixed up month. Spring boxes with winter, and the daffodils bloom in spite of a cold north wind bringing with it hard hail that bites and bruises.

It's difficult to write my last column for The Sentinel, especially the day after Nik's birthday, which this year fell on Mother's Day. I don't want this to be a sad column, but it's hard to be happy when the May wind rips through the hole in my heart. I miss my son, and this year, dreaded the special day set aside for all moms.

So, instead of participating in production day weekend at The Sentinel, my daughter and I drove to the crash site to visit the place Nik died. We smoked a camel cigarette in his memory and resigned the yield sign near the tree his car hit.

Later, we planted two trees for Nik, a flowering Hawthorne and a dwarf peach. We dug into the rich soil, unearthing three boulders and several worms. The sun flitted in and out, threatening rain. We put the trees in their holes, added a handful of Nik's ashes, a shovel full of horse manure, and potting soil.

When Nik died, I didn't think I would ever write again, much less return to college. But I had tasted the ravages of grief when my husband died May 2, 1993, and I could not go down that dangerous dark path again. I made a decision to live, and returned to finish my senior year at LCSC to study parental grief.

A year later, I came back to NIC as the online editor and got to take art classes. I used words and art to help me trudge through my mourning. And these tools have given me new perspectives on life.

I will especially miss The Sentinel, Nils Rosdahl, our adviser, and the talented students I have worked with. I am grateful to both LCSC and NIC in giving me a voice for my grief. Because I have a voice, I can still sing, in spite of the cold wind that howls in my heart and the never ending longing to be with my son.

May, the month of mixed blessings. Two blue birds have taken up residence in Nik's garden. I will get to watch them build their nest and see their babies take their first flight.

Life is glorious.
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May, the month of mourning

May marches in with mixed blessings. The bluebirds have returned and the flowers spew out their colorful bouquets that tease and tantalize the senses.

But a May wind shreds through the hole in my heart. I thought I could turn my bad luck into something good, that humanity would help lift my spirit so I could do grand and glorious deeds. But no one wants to hear a sad story. They turn their eyes down and secretly think, “Better her than me.” They say I’m brave, shake my hand, and walk away.

I wanted to find meaning in my son’s death. I set lofty goals and marched toward them, working hard and setting a fierce pace. But that wasn’t good enough. And who in his or her right mind would give someone like me, a recovering addict and mental nut case, the money to go for the goal and get the master’s degree I’ve dreamed of since the sixth grade.

Really, it doesn’t matter, because nothing can replace my son. And that wind rips and roars, tearing me apart. Sometimes it’s all I can do to fight my way out of bed. Screw it. I made my bed and I’ll sleep in it. It’s cozy and warm. I’m safe and insane. No one can touch me.

I have moments of relief. Like riding on the back of a flying horse, the ground beneath me a blur and the horses feet a delightful cadence that nulls the wind pounding at my heart. I’ll sit in Nik’s garden and watch the bluebirds sing and the geese fly over me, honking at each other.

But it always comes back to him. The car rolled and flipped ejecting him through the windshield. Why didn’t he wear his seatbelt? Three police officers came to the door heralding the bad news. An instant member of the worst day club, that morning plays repeatedly in my brain. I sit on the chair and say, “but it’s his birthday tomorrow, He’ll be 18. His father died 15 years ago in a similar accident. Please go away.”

I go back to bed, but people come over and no one knows how to make the coffee. So, I get up and do it. They bring food but how can I eat? My blue-eyed prince is dead and life has no meaning.

Unbelievably, I returned to school to honor my son. I returned to school because I could not trudge the same path I took when my husband died. I decided to live. But my school days are numbered. They offered me a scholarship to my dream school but it only covers a fourth of the tuition and I don’t have what it takes to keep banging a dead door. I’m done.

Going to school has made me a better person and helped me get through the worst day of my life. I am grateful to NIC and LCSC for helping me receive my bachelor’s degree and make something better of my life. I will miss The Sentinel most of all, for it has given me a voice in a loud and fast-paced world that doesn’t always care. Being the online editor also gave me the opportunity to take drawing classes, which I used to help sort through my grief. The hole in my heart has gotten smaller because of these educational institutions.

He didn't wear his seatbelt

What if?

It all comes back to you, Nik. And your death. I create art in you memory, allowing my grief to sift from my fingers to my drawing pad. When something good happens, like buying that beautiful mandolin, I cry, “I’d rather have Nik.” When something bad happens, it kindles the embers of my sorrow, stirring up my tears like a tornado.

I try to change my life for the better, to do grand and noble things in your memory. And when I fail, as I often do, the wind howls through the hole that your death created, ripping my heart apart.

I have been accepted to Whidbey Island Writers, Nik, but have not, as yet, received a scholarship so that I can attend. It was a grandiose idea, a childhood dream. And if it doesn’t happen, I will be cut adrift. My schemes shattered and the idea that I could better myself to find some kind of meaning in your death destroyed.

I miss you, Nik. Every day.

Pets, angels in disguise

Lafcadio’s mom liked to cat around. A ferial female, she showed up on my friend Greg’s porch with five frisky kittens. He provided food and shelter and when they were old enough to give away, he trapped them in a cage. My son died and my daughter moved out, taking her cat with her. I needed a cuddly companion, so I came by and selected the biggest one.

Lafcadio didn’t have wings but he was an angel in disguise. A long hair gray tabby, he had the softest coat and the gentlest purr. He seemed to sense when I was sad, and he’d sit on my lap and churn away with his purr box until I smiled.

When I couldn’t sleep at night, I called him and he would sit on my pillow until I fell asleep. In the morning, he’d be on the end of the bed, entwined in my robe.

Lafcadio always had problems jumping up on things, and I thought that perhaps he needed eyeglasses. A month ago, he tried to hop up on the drier and hit the ground with a bang.

At first, I thought he had sprained his right rear leg, because he’d take a few tentative steps and fall on his right side. It seemed to get better, but he kept on trying to jump up on things, and then he began to wobble back and forth like a drunk. I checked him for ticks (they can cause parallazation), and poked and prodded his hind legs. He was not in any pain, but I wanted to know what he had and if it could be fixed.

I loaded him up in the cat carrier and took him to the vet. He weighs almost four pounds and meowed like a banshee in the car.

Lafcadio did not need glasses. He had congenital spine problems. The vet prescribed Prednisone, a steroid, which did not help him.

I didn’t mind having a crippled cat, and as long as he could get to his food and the litter box, I took care of him. His condition deteriorated rapidly. He dragged himself around with his front feet. His back end failed, and he lost bladder control. I hoped that his little heart would just give out, because I did not want to make the decision.

I carried him around and set up his food and water by the wood stove because he liked to sleep there. When I opened the front door, he’d wiggle his way to the porch to soak up some sun.

When he stopped purring, I knew he felt miserable. I made the call to the vet, wrapped him in a towel, and drove back to the vet. Lafcadio was terrified. He hated the car. He had lost his voice, and when he opened it to meow, nothing came out.

I held him in my arms and watched the tranquilizer take hold. I hope he knew I stayed with him until the end. His veins were so small that they had to give him the shot in the heart. He went quickly.

I buried him in Nik’s garden next to the bird feeder with a handful of Nik’s ashes. Nik didn’t like cats much, but I think he would have loved Lafcadio.

Lafcadio brought me great comfort and showed me unconditional love. Like I said, he was an angel in disguise. And now he has wings.

The cell phone

I can’t find my cell phone or write. Nothing makes sense. Nik had blue eyes, olive colored skin, and thick black hair. John Gardner says not to write about what you know, but Nik slips into my thoughts with practiced ease. I can’t get him out of my head.

A seatbelt would have saved him, and I wonder why he didn’t buckle up. His arrogance swallowed him as surely as the alcohol he consumed. I can’t seem to write fiction when the nonfiction consumes all my words.

My barn has wrinkled white walls and faded blue trim. The horse ate all the hay this year, and I’m scraping the bottom layer, trying to feed any available debris to the beast.

She’s not really a beast. I am. If I could do it over, I would. I’d take his keys away and ground him for a month. I wouldn’t let him out of my sight. I’d hug him, kiss him, and tell him I loved him. I’d drag him to AA meetings, guard him, and protect him. I’d sell the car I gave him for his graduation present. I’d send him back to California. I’d take his anger and hatred if only he would live.

I prayed for a boy because I knew my husband, 25 years my senior, would die before me. I wanted to have his carbon copy. How ironic that they would die the same death, 15 years, 6 days and 2 hours a part. The cars flipped over ejecting them through the windshields. Nik, I am told, was killed instantly. His car crushed him. Bob lived for a few hours. It cost $5,000 for him to die.

The barn has a fresh scar from when I tried to back the trailer into it. My daughter said, “Mom, you shouldn’t try backing things up when you’re upset.” I gave up trying to put it in the barn. Besides which, the barn now houses the old doors, riddled with holes, from Nik’s room, his waterbed, desk, a broken wheelbarrow, extension chord, empty bag of feed, a pile of hay baling string, the snow thrower that refuses to start in the winter but always fires up in the summer, and the lawn mower that Nik used to cut the grass with.

Every night I wonder if tomorrow will be the day I don’t have to cry. But whenever I think that, the tears spring leaks in my eyes, dripping down my weathered cheeks and into my mouth. Worse yet, my snuff stained nose begins to drip brown snot. I can’t help myself. It’s as if I’m trying to stuff my loss with whatever I can to fill the leak.

People tell me I’m courageous and brave. I don't feel strong, but I do feel like a soldier with my armor, the necklace I had made with my son’s ashes on a chain around my neck. I will not stuff Nik out of mind, out of site, or out of memory. I will confront my grief and face it. I will talk about it and about him. I have to make it count for something. Does that make sense?

I can’t help it. When Bob died, I got a week off from work, and then was expected to perform as if nothing had happened. I never told one single customer what had occurred. Because I didn’t know a thing about death, I didn’t write an obit for him. It was easier, or so I thought, not to let anyone know. It amazed me how no one could tell I was walking around like a ghost.

My cell phone. Where did I lose it this time? I didn’t want to get one, but Nik convinced me too. Now I feel half naked without it. And I disconnected the landline because of the cost of the cell phone. Screw it.

Anyway, the only reason it would ring at this time of the night would be for bad news.

Grief is a physical force

I have learned that grief is a real physical force, like love. It is, really, an integral part of love. Indeed, the stronger the love, the harder the grief.

I have discovered not to fear grief and to handle it with respect. Like love, it can tie one in knots and drown one in despair. Like love, it causes the soul to expand and grow.

When my husband died, leaving me with two small children, I did not understand grief. I thought I had to do it all by myself and would not let others help me. My daughter’s school tried to give us a turkey for Thanksgiving dinner. I felt insulted and told them no thanks. I didn’t realize that they were just trying to help us. People will fall all over themselves trying to help the bereaved and really, most of them don’t know what to do.

When Nik died, I had enough experience with grief to know what not to do. And for this round, I have reached out and utilized everything to express my grief and move through it with as much grace as possible.

So, when a neighbor saw me on the street and asked me if I wanted my yearly lamb, I said yes. He told me, “It’s free.” I said, “Thank-you.”

Dreaming

I dreamed of Nik last night. The car was wrecked but he had survived, and we were looking at new cars. Perhaps in some other dimension a luckier Nik and a relieved Desire` continue to live together in some kind of harmony.

But in this slice of space, he died, leaving a rip in my heart. Why do I keep picking at the scabs?

The sun leaks into my livingroom and I go about my daily chores. I want to be a better person for you my blue-eyed boy. I wish Nik was here.

Finding Forgiveness

We never asked Grandma
how she felt
because she would produce
a bag of pills
and a long list of health issues
ailing her.

My son, Nik, died in a car accident
and my aunts decided
not to tell Grandma.
It was, after all,
about our unfolding grief.
Not her.

Grandma came for an
unexpected visit.
She seemed frail,
shrinking beneath her shawl,
blue eyes bright
and lips painted crimson.

I remembered picking cherries
and pomegranates
in her backyard,
the juice shading my chin
the color of her lipstick.

I took her hand in mine,
her cold fingers long and thin,
leaned close and kissed
her wrinkly rice paper cheek.
“Grandma,” I said. “I love you.”

The only thing you have to do...

The only thing you have to do is grieve.
Say it, shout it, dance with it.
One word that encompasses all the pain,
The memories, sharp, clear
Poignant.

So take off your happy face
And cry into your pillow.
Walk across the floor in ugly old sweats
Sit on the couch and look
At his picture on the piano.

To swift the passing of his years
And my life spread before me
Like a quilt with infinite possibilities
His stuffed beneath the Ford Explorer
I bought him for graduation.

Remember when it gets too much,
The only thing you have to do is breath.
Take in the wind across the lake and
The fuzzy pink dawn
The blue heron on the bank
Like a winged god.

So put grief on the shelf.
Wrap it up for a rainy day or
A song that sparks his memory.
Open it up and caress it
Like you used to hold him
In your arms while
He suckled at your breast.

Walking for Nik

Beautiful blue skies beckon on a somewhat chilly February day. Last year, snow capped in grime covered the campus and it was difficult to walk to class, much less meander the beach.

Today, I took a walk for Nik. He lived in Coeur d’Alene for a short while attending college, and I’d meet him for coffee or take him to Costco to stock him up on juice and top ramen. We’d stroll across campus, Nik in a hurry, and me just delighted to be with him. He’d be headed for 20 had he lived; instead, he never broached 18.

But I see him often in the eyes of eager young men in my classes. Last semester, a kid in my art class had his sharp wit and crooked smile, and another young man straddles the thin line between law and disorder, just like Nik did.

Sometimes, I have to go to the bathroom to cry. My glasses get smeared and my nose drips. But I welcome the jarred bittersweet memories because they make me feel closer to my boy.

Anyway, the Canada geese were calling, and I bolted from the stuffy classroom, camera strapped around my neck, and headed down to the beach wishing Nik were here with me. When he was little, we spent plenty of time at city beach swimming or at the Pack River Bridge. He always tried to convince me to jump with him, but I could never get the courage to take the plunge. I did go off the rope swing a couple times, but really, I mainly enjoyed watching my kids have fun in the water.

The volleyball nets were still set up in the middle of winter, joggers ran by in shorts, bicyclists sped along the pathway and young lovers held hands near the dock. A skateboarder cruised by with Nik’s black hair, and I smiled remembering Nik on his board. He didn’t like the taste of cement, and decided he preferred watching his friends or riding his bike.

He had his bike in the back of his Ford Explorer the day of the accident and it was mangled beyond redemption. That day, he had bugged me to find oil for his chain, and I’m glad I grudgingly found it for him. I admit it, I was grouchy that afternoon, but I took the time to tell him I loved him. And then he was gone.

At times, it feels like this waiting to see him again is like forever. But then, I see that kid with the crooked smile, the sun shines, the sky is as blue as his eyes were, and the chickadees are singing “hey sweetie.” Sometimes I think experiencing the death of a child has made me more aware of the beautiful things around me. When I’m feeling the lowest and don’t know how I’ll get through another minute, the Canada geese come back along the horizon or an eagle greets me as I cross the Long Bridge.

We live in a beautiful place. So, get out and enjoy it.

Underground

It feels like going underground, she said.
Like a bunch of cotton balls stuffed in your head.
Kind of like a cold from hell.
And it hurts to breath.

So I’m not going
to that frigid land of depression
where every day
dons another suit of led
zipped tight around clammy skin.

I’ll face my grief-
look it in the eye
up close and personal
knife in hand
slashing at long tentacles
tied to the deep dark depths

of mixed up emotion,
where lies live and love dies.
Where hope diminishes
with every wretched breath.

I want to laugh and cry
with reckless abandon
and thank god for every day
Niko was here.

Bits and pieces

I can only bite off chunks of grief in bits and pieces. How else would I manage to get out of bed?

The Mandolin

Drew suffered from mental illness and had difficulties getting out on his own. He was an incredible artist and musician who could no longer create art or listen to music. It was my job to take him on walks to get him out of the house.

A little obsessive compulsive, his room was orderly and neat, and his will, long and detailed. He planned to give his electric sliding guitar to Truck, a local musician he used to play with in Sandpoint.

“What about me?” I asked him with an impish grin. “Can I have one of your guitars?”

He walked to his desk and put the statue of Buddha I had just moved back in its previous spot. He glanced at me, wringing his hands.

“My nephews play. I want to give them my guitars. How about the mandolin?”

“I’ve always wanted to play mandolin,” I said.

That spring, my son, Nik, died in a car accident. Drew sobbed that it should have been him. I said, “Dying is easy, Drew, but sometimes life is very hard.”

We always took the same route when we walked, and the day Drew left us, we went off the beaten track and treated ourselves to fish taco’s at Joel’s, one of our favorite restaurants. Later, his sister, Tea, told me she was glad I spent the afternoon with him, and that we had a nice lunch together. I was the last person to see him alive.

Drew left me with a hole in my heart and no one to walk with, plus he forgot to put me in his will. I missed the sound of his voice; I longed for his mandolin.

Tea and her sons discussed the matter and agreed that I should have the mandolin; I had to promise to learn how to play it and never sell or give it away. I took lessons from Doug that summer. He taught me how to tune it, hold the pick, and strum a few cords. I poured my grief into that thing, and when I played, it felt like I had wings and could survive another day.

Still, the mandolin does not come easy to me. The cords require six long, strong and graceful fingers. I have five short and stubby digits that lack coordination and grit. I have a good ear, a nice voice and plenty of enthusiasm. I managed to master three songs, “Joy” by Bach, “Amazing Grace,” and “Losing My Religion.”

The flowers faded in fall and I went back to school. I put the mandolin away for a year and a half, and this winter break, I grew bored with books and DVD’s and picked it back up.

When Greg called me and asked me to come to his house in Sagle for a jamming session, my fingers felt strong and I said, “sure.” When Tuesday rolled around, I grew afraid and was tempted to not bring my instrument. I reminded myself of my promise to Tea and her boys, put my fear on the shelf, grabbed my mandolin and drove to Gregg’s house.

I was way out of my league. Four fabulous guitarists and one shining mandolin player arrived and began to make music. Although I sang in Madrigals, the best choir group in high school, I had never played with a group of instrumentalists, and my high school days are well behind me (I’m headed for 51). But my mandolin was in tune, and I had mastered the easy d, cheating G and C, and a funky F. I even kept up on a couple of the songs.

Every one brought one song to play (accept me), and the rest joined in with an ease that astonished and delighted. Most of the group has been playing sense they were kids, and they all show each other different chord progressions and licks. The biggest problem seemed to be remembering the words to the songs.

Turns out that one of the members, Steve, makes mandolins and guitars. His wife was playing one of his mandolins, and before I left, he handed me one of his creations. I picked out Bach’s tune with little effort and was amazed at the quality of the sound and the way it felt in my hands.

“This is way easier to play than my mandolin,” I said.

He looked at my instrument and showed me how to adjust the bridge. It’s easier to play now, but still does not match the sound of his hand made mandolin.

“When I’m a rich and famous writer, I’m going to buy that mandolin,” I said.

Steve shook my hand, smiled, and said, “I look forward to that day.”

I floated home on cloud nine with a promise to master “You Are My Sunshine” for next week. I have the cords and the words and plan on practicing every day. I felt like I had been given the best birthday present ever, like I too could fly with the eagles. Sure, I had a late start, and might sound like a dog baying at the moon when I play. But I’ve been given a new beginning, and the slick mud and the snow the color of midnight did not crush my mood.

I got home, threw some hay to the horses, came inside, and practiced the song. I’ll be ready next week.

Boys and dogs

I wrote this for The Sentinel and it has also appeared in the Sandpoint Reader.

Dog breeders--having bred many canines into spotted stupidity (yes, I’m referring to Dalmatians) or gigantic models with a blond mentality (great Danes)--realizing the power of words, have decided to breed those short nosed atrocities, pugs, with beagles forming a new, powerful sounding breed, Bugs, or with Chihuahuas--Chugs. Cocker Spaniels crossed with Poodles become Cock-A-Poos; Bichuns with Poodles-Bich-Poos; Rat Terriers with Boston Terriers-Brats; Collies with Poodles-Cadoodles; Dachshunds with Yorkies-Dorkies. What’s next? How about a Bulldog with a Shih Tzu, creating a, you got it, Bullshit.

What’s hysterically wrong with this whole concept is that individuals actually pay mucho money for these mixed monstrosities. People, wake-up. My 92-year-old grandmother just moved to Idaho to live with my mom. Rather than start a custody battle over Tiki, my grandmother’s teacup white poodle, with my Aunty Dawn, mom left Tiki behind, promising Grandma a new Idaho canine. After Grandma settled in, Mom took her to the animal shelter to find another dog.

The animal shelter in Sandpoint, a no-kill facility, has a wide assortment of mutt mixes in a variety of sizes and shapes. Unfortunately, they did not have a white teacup poodle. However, they did have Chihuahuas. Grandma picked the smallest white one, proclaiming, “He looks just like Tiki.” No surprise, she named him Tiki-Too. Tiki-Too sits on Grandma’s lap, eats from her hand and makes a wonderful companion. Best of all it only cost $85 (which included neutering) to adopt him. Chihuahua pimps charge between $250-$500 for an unspayed Chihuahua.

One of the best things I did for my son, Nik, was let him adopt a dog at the animal shelter. He begged for a dog, saved his allowance and convinced me to let him have one. Nik purchased a perfect pet for $30. That animal, “Cholo,” a black lab something-or-other mutt (Lab-A-Mix or Mixed-Up-Lab), bonded with Nik, helped raise him and taught him responsibility and how to care for another creature.

The animal shelter has a 10 day money back return policy. For the first week, Nik threatened to return Cholo every day. But Cholo, in all his puppy-hood glory, always won his way back into Nik’s heart. Nik bought Cholo squeak toys (babies) and gave him a special bone every Christmas morning.

When Nik moved to Calif., he called Cholo every week on his cellphone. After Nik graduated from Long Beach Job Corp, he returned to Idaho. Nik would use Cholo to spend time with me, coaxing him up on my bed (off-limits) where I studied. The three of us, Cholo in the middle, a 16-year-old boys excuse to be so close to his mom, hung out together, talking about school, music, computers, life, and of course, Cholo breaking the rules and sitting on the bed.

After Nik died in a senseless car accident, Cholo grieved. One morning I put a picture of Nik on my bed next to one of his favorite shirts. That afternoon, I found Cholo curled around the picture, using the shirt as a pillow.

I took Cholo to the crash site and Cholo showed me where Nik died. “Here, Mom,” he seemed to say, using his nose, tail and body language. The police report I received later confirmed Cholo’s finding.

Cholo had a difficult time at Christmas. He carried around one of his old babies, waiting for his boy to come home for the holiday. He got his traditional bone Christmas morning, but what he really wanted, Nik, never materialized, and Cholo pouted around the house, not even walking over to Jenny’s for his morning treat.

Cholo sleeps on my bed now, and worries about me when I’m gone. He patrols the premises and visits my sister every morning. When Cholo dies, I will bury him in Nik’s memorial garden with four pawfuls of Nik’s ashes. The boy and his dog will be reunited. Every boy, I think, needs a dog, and every dog deserves a special boy.

A Tiki-Too or a Cholo Lab-a-Mix awaits you at the local animal shelter--kind-hearted companions serving jail sentences through no fault of their own, living behind bars, fixed, vetted and ready for a good home. Please don’t get caught up in the word games of breeders. Go to the local animal shelter and adopt a Tiki-Too instead of spending big bucks on a Bullshit breed.

Forgetting

It's been so long I forgot my log-in information. But I haven't forgotten you, Nik. I see you in the lake and on the mountain. The pain pierces like a sharp rock scraping against my skin. I want to be close to you. But then, I see an eagle flying across the Long Bridge, and the waves against the sky and the purple mountains-the beauty takes my breath away.

So I keep chipping away at the grief. I still cry at least once a day, and then, I put my armor back on and go out for battle. I have longer moments of awareness and I can laugh again. I hope that I appreciate the wind and the eagle more now, aware how fragile life can be.

I turned 51 but you did not come to me in my dreams. Or if you did, I don't remember. But I still think about you every day. I miss your hands, your blue eyes, your smile and your cooking.