Out of the Dark

The dark of grief blossoms in grey pedals shaded in crimson. The seasons do not change, and it feels like terminal winter, as the ice forms around your heart, constricting and squeezing until it hurts to breathe.

The pedals of despair peel and chip, like an old china cup that you once treasured but has now lost its polish. You sweep up the debris and trudge carefully along the narrow path up a mountain, over a precipice. The bridge, wooden planks rotting and rope twine untwining, is frightening, but you hang on to a friend or faith or whatever comes your way, and tip toe across, longing for the light you see glimmering on the other side like a halo. You want to laugh again, to dance again, to wake in the morning without howling out your anger and despair.

Time passes without your permission, just like the child you no longer hold. You begged god to take you instead, but you are not in charge, and a voice whispers, the child did not belong to you. You are not god, you know that, but if you were, there would have been a different ending.

You make it across the rickety bridge, and on the other side, the gray shadows bloom into a double rainbow, which you can smell, taste, and touch. The pot of gold is acceptance, and the desire to keep on living even though he is dead. The pot of gold is your family and friends who stepped up to the plate when you couldn’t crawl out of bed.

Dear Nik

It’s been more than five years since you died, and this will be our sixth Christmas without you. The family and I have made progress on our grief journey, as we trudge through traditions, songs, and favorite recipes that remind us of you.

I think you would like the tree I cut down this year. I must admit, I missed having you here to do the heavy labor, but I did not miss the bickering over which tree we would select. Remember how I finally had to set down some guidelines, and we would alternate who got to choose the tree every year?

I set your special ornaments, the singing Santa, the nutcrackers, the statue of a black lab in a red hat, the train, and the snowboarding snowmen, in a special corner. The first Christmas without you, I could hardly bare to look at them. They still bring tears, but instead of bitter regrets and anger that you left us too soon, they evoke joyful memories of laughter and love.

Your sister still makes the chorizo fondue, and your grandma and I make the pumpkin pies. I grow pumpkins in your memorial garden, because as you know, real pumpkins make the most delicious pies. When I roll out the dough, I wear your apron, because it reminds me of you, and I secretly believe that act makes the pies taste better.

I finally got your dog, Chollo, a baby, Little Girl. She has brought much love and happiness into our lives. We have to take her on walks at least two times a day, and that has made Chollo and I much healthier.

We miss you Nik. We miss your sharp wit, your smile, your wonderful cooking, and your generous heart. 

Grief Crashed

Grief crashed upon the shore

The wind blew with wickedness

The waves swept me off my feet

And the cross current sucked me in.

Tumbling turning beneath salty shore

The sand scraped my skin raw

A piece of me said swallow and drown

Instead I stood upon murky ground

She said she couldn’t teach me about grief

Because the reality cannot be preached

But now I had to grow wings and fly

Above regrets, guilt, and denial

How can I grow wings I sobbed

My heart is bitter, my emotions dark

I feel as if I have been robbed

My bonny prince is all I want

She grabbed my hand and pulled me out

She said I had to release my doubts

Live for him if you must

Help another in their hurt

Time passes as quickly as a lightning bolt

And memories I have to coax

Of a laughing lad reaching for the sky

Above me now, in the light.

I’ll never forget the life he led

And I strive for goodness for myself

My voice has strengthened, and I believe

I have grown bonny blue wings.

New song about happy Nik memories

The kids thought I could talk to the animals

I’d translate everything they said.

My daughter’s faith was unwavering,

But Nik questioned everything I said.

One day he came home with a secret

A new girlfriend he proclaimed

But he would not tell his mother

The little girl’s name.

I’ll whisper it into Bluedog’s ear

He piped up with a grin

His blue eyes blazed brightly

He was confident he would win.

Bluedog put his nose to my ear,

and said give the Mom a hint—

Let her guess the first letter

Of the alphabet.

Nik thought he had me

As I eagerly watched his face

When I got to the letter H

His grin folded like a case.

Bluedog sensed my triumph

And whispered in my ear

It’s that little girl Harmony

With freckles and red hair.

Bluedog says it’s Harmony

I said loud and clear

Nik shouted No it’s not

As he headed to the rear.

I’ll never have a girlfriend,

And Harmony’s a hog

But from that day he believed

Every word I translated for the dog.

The Anniversary

I thought I would skate through the anniversary of my son’s death with style and grace. However, as the day approached, I felt myself plunging into memories of the day--the police knocking on the door, my daughter’s crying, crawling back into bed, longing for it to be a bad dream, and hoping against all hopes that some other mother’s son had been driving the car and was now lying dead at the funeral parlor.

No surprise, I can’t skate with style or grace, nor can I maintain any sense of normalcy during the anniversary of Nik’s death. What I can do is walk through the day, and allow myself the tears that frequently fall out of my eyes. I can let others know what I am feeling, and indeed, let my sister cook me dinner, and go out to lunch with good friends.

I centered myself in Nik’s memorial garden, creating rock art and planting a new lilac, which will blossom and grow, digging deep into the soil, and stretching toward the heavens where I think Nik can see and smell the glorious purple crown.