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.