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.”