The Day Time Stood Still

Pain sharpens my memory—and so the day of my son’s death remains harsh and clear—as if it was in digital format, and protected by my shield of grief. At first, the pain felt so overwhelming that I did not think I would survive. I didn’t think I would ever write, or live, or love, again.

The shield of grief weighed at least a ton and felt like a suit of led. Four fleeting years have passed, and I have worn off some of the weight.  Like a glad gardener, digging in the spring soil searching for the sprouts of flowers bursting with life, I remove my helmet of led and dig through my memories, bypassing May 8, the day before my son’s 18th birthday, the day of his death, the day time stood still.

Now, the shield of grief has weak spots worn on it, like the patches on my old jeans, and I can choose my memories. I do not want to completely remove my suit of led. Indeed, I decide to put it on, because I do not want to ever forget my son. But now, I can caress the soft spots, the patches, as if they were my favorite pants, soft and comfortable.  I remember his laugh, his sharp wit—his brilliant blue eyes. I remember him snowboarding like a Greek god, cooking breakfast, or scrambling across the soccer pitch. I focus on the good things I did for him, like letting him adopt a puppy at the animal shelter and buying him a bass.

Because of my beautiful son, I now have a new perspective on life. I am more willing not to dust, deciding to cherish that sometimes illusive and challenging entity, time, and take the moment to call a friend or play that song on my banjo one more time. I have learned how to put fear in the back seat, and experience new and exciting adventures.

At first, I did not have a choice. It hurt to breath, and the blooming of the crocuses was an insult to my mental state. Now, I dig in the garden, my tears feeding the flowers. I have opened my door to life, to love, to creativity. I have the courage to pick up pen, brush, or musical instrument, and let loves vibrations fill me. 

I can see through the shield of grief.  I can dig through my memories to find my son’s smile. He is always only a thought away. He has become timeless, and so, he will always have life. And in an effort to find meaning in his death, I have found new ways to live.

I miss you, Niko, everyday. Happy Birthday.