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.
