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.