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.
Saturday, February 27, 2010
Friday, February 19, 2010
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.
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.
Wednesday, February 17, 2010
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.
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.
Monday, February 15, 2010
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?
Wednesday, February 10, 2010
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.
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.
Monday, February 8, 2010
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.
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.
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.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
