Snow Covers the Ground

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Snow covers the ground

Falling without a sound

Flames inside burn brightly

Smiles glued on tightly

The tree, short and proud

Baring a colorful shroud

Of memories lost and found

As mists of time swirl round

Early you would rise

To discover your great surprise

Then my coffee you would brew

And serve it with the morning dew

Christmas greets us every year

In spite of the grief we must bare

Your smile forever lost

Your death too high a cost.

I polish my memories with a rag

And take your ornaments from a bag

They sparkle and shine in spite of dust

And a heart filled with rust.

The Wind

The day after Thanksgiving and the chimes ring loud and clear.
It's warm for this time of the year, and the wind sighs,
carrying the souls of the children, too young to die,
upward, lifting them to the stars,
where they dot the night sky like candy.

Gratitude

After Nik died, it was difficult to be thankful, count my blessings, or be grateful for anything. November is gratitude month, and with the passage of years, I can say that my cup runneth over. I have a warm fire and plenty of wood for winter, furry horses and a barn full of hay to keep them fat and sassy, an assortment of indoor pets that keep me entertained and feeling full of love, wonderful family and friends, music, words, the colors of fall, a car that runs, a truck with a plow to move winter's snow, and soft toilet paper.

Of course, right after Nik died, the month of November felt like a bitter burden, and I couldn't recite the Lord's Prayer or the Serenity Prayer. But I got out of bed every morning and made the drive to school. I moved to Sagle right before the weather turned, and had a new to me house to organize and put together. At the time, I didn't know how I could manage, but now I'm grateful I had something to keep my occupied, so I didn't always dwell on the emptiness Nik's death left, and the ever present missing.

If you are newly bereaved, I can testify that with the passage of time, the emptiness and the missing becomes lighter, and I have come to a place where I am better able to let the little things go, to stop and count my blessings, and to laugh and cry with wreckless abandon. My path has widened, and I have more than I can say grace over.

Playing With Time

In two minutes, the clock will fall back. Funny. I've already changed the time piece in my bedroom, and wait for the magic moment when my cell phone and computer will magically go back an hour. It used to confound and confuse me, this messing with my time lines. Now, I think I'll watch the ticking, try to figure out how they manage it, so I can turn back the years, and save your life.

Rain

A long drawn out Autumn falls flat and rain cascades from a gray sky. The garden has been put to bed, the horse fence fixed, the hay covered, the greenhouse dismantled, the wood cut and stacked. Each piece of wood could hold a memory--good, bad, or indifferent, haunting and hallow or happy and hypnotic. I'll burn them in the wood stove, and watch the flames reach for the stars. I reach for you in my dreams, perhaps we dance, perhaps we talk, I hope we hug. 

Blue Wings

Stand Tall

Nik used to look into my face as if he were memorizing every line. He scooted along the floor like a turtle, rather than crawl, and he would stop in his track, raise his head, and peer at his surroundings. We called him turtle for a short time. He adored his big sister, DaNae, and she would hold him up on the couch and cuddle him. They had a strong bond, those two, strengthened by years of love. Fighting and bickering, a regular occurrence only seemed to tighten the bond, rather than breaking it.

DaNae had just turned 20 when Nik died, and her biggest problem was discovering that many of her friends refused to let her deal with his death. It was simpler for them to ignore the elephant in the room. It’s not that they didn’t love her, it’s that they didn’t understand the grieving process. They didn’t know what to say, how to act, or how to be there for her.

Time, I think, has softened the rough edges, and perhaps, decreased the size of the hole Nik’s death left in her heart. She misses her brother, and dreams of him often. She wears a Nik necklace at all times, and has his name tattooed on her foot, because he always helped her stand tall.

The Harvest

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I harvested green tomatoes from the garden, rescuing them from a killing frost, rubbing them dry and stuffing them into a brown bag. They sit in the darkness to ripen red, and then I’ll freeze them whole, and use them in winter stews and soups.

Nik didn’t like gardening so much, but he loved to cook. Together, we made fried green tomatoes, green tomato jam, and chutney. We didn’t appreciate the fried green tomatoes or the green jam, but the chutney had a unique flavor that tasted good in eggs, curry, chicken, and beans.

Although I continue to garden, relishing the dirt underneath my fingernails and the observance of life, I can’t seem to get myself to turn my bounty into canned goods. The process, heavy labor, is lonely without my son’s glowing smile and his daring cooking antics. When he died, my ability to can died with him, and the glass jars we used to fill with our produce from the garden sit in a shelf, collecting dust.

I’ve learned other ways to harvest the garden goods. The herbs I dry in the green house, and I freeze corn, squash, tomatoes, and this year, basil and peppers. The pumpkins I still render into pumpkin gook, so that I can make Nik’s pumpkin pie during the holidays.

Blue skies touched by a wisp of gray clouds hovers outside my window, as I finish my morning coffee, and prepare myself for another day of garden clean up. I miss you Nik, every day.

In an Empty Room

Picture on the Wall

Post by Desiree Aguirre.

Rock Hard

Nik slips into my thoughts with practiced ease. At first, these thoughts were rock hard, overwhelmingly powerful and painful. Time eases the edges, wears them smooth, like seawater on glass. But sometimes, I see someone that reminds me of my son, and the reminding feels like a vacuum, a bottomless pit, and the thought of my son, my beautiful boy, dead and gone, ashes to ashes and dust to dust, while this imposter walks tall and proud, sends me backward in time, and the vacuum sucks me in.

And I wonder how I can keep on keeping on without him. How I can live and breathe while he is not at all. It’s as if the swift passage of time has come undone, and I am back to square one, set a drift in a sea of agony.

I feel small and powerless, like a pebble caught in the current, tumbling and turning. I tell myself that my tears, wet salt water, will once again smooth over my grief. In the morning, new lines will be etched on my face.

Protolith

I’m a wreck of a smile,

a parent rock,

layered with clay, sand, and silt.

You were a skipper and a dipper

Crushed by gravity and fire

Into cosmic ashes, starlight dust.

I shed billions of tears

that etch the iron in my heart to rust,

leaving scars in multiple dimensions.

The River of Denial

Sometimes, it is difficult to get through this grieving thing. It’s not like people encourage me to trudge up the steps along the bereavement path. In fact, I’m more likely to hear encouraging words such as, “You should just get over it,” or “It’s been six years. Time to get on with your life.”

At first, I wanted to sharpen my knives and carve the smiles off the faces of such well- wishers. Having landed somewhat precariously on the other side of the water, I now understand that most people would rather swim in the river of denial than face up to the pain that the grieving process entails. They don’t want to mention Nik’s name or talk about him. Although these activities bring me comfort and help me swim across my river of grief, it causes them discomfort and forces them to confront the missing. It makes them cry.

To me, the tears I shed for Nik honor his memory, and wash my pain clean. I have accepted that these tears are simply a piece of the puzzle, and in order to find the missing pieces and put myself back together, healthy, happy, and whole, I have to dive in and confront the dark emotions that cause discomfort and tears.

I will continue to honor my son in song, in prose, in poetry, and in tears. I actually feel sorry for those that take the easier and softer way, floating on the placid waters of denial. Although the grieving process can cut like a rusty razor blade, the grieving process has forced me to grow up, and shifted my perceptions like the reflections created by a kaleidoscope. I see the world in full color, am more likely to cry, but also, am more likely to laugh.

How Long?

How long has it been? A little over 6 years, and yes, time does heal, or smooth the rough edges. I remember waking up every morning howling, and basically incapable of facing the day, much less the rest of my life (his cut out completely). The hole, still visible, but filled with numerous activities and creative endeavors, no longer threatens to devour me, and I tell myself little stories, such as Nik is my Little Girl’s guardian angel, and he sent her to me, to convince myself that he is still with me and I am loved…

Milestones

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His last milestone in the road now lives in my garden.

A yellow sign, shaped like a triangle,

symbolic of I don’t know what, yield to god,

or wear your seatbelt,

or don’t drink and drive?

I’ve deleted and repeated

rather than cross out and erase.

My brain, as thick as cotton candy only not as sweet,

needs a jolt of caffeine, a shot of adrenalin,

a kick in the proverbial ass.

What is a milestone in the road, anyway?

Is it that deer someone left oozing on the pavement,

or the markers that tick by ad infinitum

so people can judge the distance travelled and the speed of their vehicle.

Isn’t that what speedometers are for?

Perhaps the milestones are more like the flowers in the garden,

that grow taller each and every year,

the corn stalks that soak up the hot rays of sunlight

and inch ever closer to the sky,

the blueberries that bunch up like marbles, begging me to eat them.

Jigsaw Puzzle

When they told me you were dead

I shattered, like a china cup

And went to the bathroom

Where I crawled on the floor,

Looking for my missing pieces.

I continue to put myself back together,

Like a 2,000 piece jigsaw puzzle

Sometimes casting myself as a rainbow

And sometimes as a raging demon.

The final image

Always remains incomplete

As I continue to search

For the missing pieces

of my heart.

Granite Countertops

I wish you had granite counter tops,

sleak and strong, easy to clean.

Something solid for you to lean on

when you needed to do some leaning.

I wish you had a fine soft quilt

made with a reliable backing,

Topped with your favorite colors,

so that you could wrap yourself in a smile.

I wish you health and happiness,

 the flow of words forever,

and a pure clear voice to sing them

forth into the world.

I wish you had granite counter tops,

strong and sleak, easy to clean

something solid to lean on,

when you feel like you’re falling.

Too Brief

Too brief

The days of summer

The air heavy and light

Like a hot balloon

Floating.

Too brief

Your short life

Ended before it began

Like a bolt of lightning

Flashing.

Too brief

The glimpses of sanity

Knitted between bouts of insanity

Like the threads of your shirt

That I still wear.

Too brief

Your scent no longer lingers

And the shirt has scars

Like the ones across my heart

But I don it anyway.

Yield

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It’s not that he didn’t yield. He was just too fast, and he missed the turn, and the car rolled and flipped, landing in front of the yield sign on Colburn Colvert road, a few miles from home.

He missed, and I miss him. He died a day before his 18^th birthday, and his friends gathered at the yield sign by the crash site, decorating it with flowers, a Happy Birthday banner and festive balloons. Best of all, they signed the yield sign.

My daughter and I coated the sign with a thin layer of varnish, hoping to preserve those signatures, and every year on Nik’s birthday, we’d drive out to the crash sign to resign the sign.

Weather in North Idaho is rough on signatures, roads, and road signs, and one year, an acquaintance came up to me and said, “You need to go get your sign.” At first, I had no idea what she was talking about. Exasperated with me, she said, “Nik’s sign came down during the last storm. I dragged it to the side of the road. You need to go get it.”

I stopped at the hardware store to purchase a few tools, and headed straight to the accident site. The roads, coated in ice and slush, were hazardous, and I was grateful for studded tires. The sign, heavy and bulky, fit snugly in the trunk of my car, and I drove home feeling like I had rescued a lost treasure.

Sandy, my step-dad, made a post for the sign, and we planted it in Nik’s memorial garden. The original signatures have faded, but every year, we resign the Yield in memory of Nik.

Nik’s garden grows around the sign, a display of colors as bright and beautiful as the fireworks on the Fourth of July. The hummingbirds sip of the nectar hanging above his sign, and the red-winged general feasts on the sunflowers in the glass bird feeder (another gift for the garden).

The garden, a magical paradise teaming with glorious life, helps center my sometime turbulent grief that, at times, explodes like a young volcano. The flowers, the fruit, the vegetables grow in spite of my bereavement, reminding me that life does go on, and providing me with the opportunity to stop and smell the lavender while counting my blessings.

Healing Garden

        

        

         Gardening is a wonderful activity that improves quality of life. Gardening helps people engage with the outdoors, which helps people become more aware of their surroundings, and more aware of time and seasonal activities. Best of all, gardening encourages the exposure to fresh air, sunlight, and exercise.

            My garden is a healing garden, a living, breathing memorial for my son, Nikolas. Nik’s garden, a hodgepodge of rocks, flowers, grass, vegetables, berries and shrubs, requires constant maintenance. An amateur gardener, I am blessed with numerous gardening friends that bring bulbs, shrubs, and flowers for my amusement. Even Nik's friends have made beautiful donations to his garden. Everyone provides detailed instructions on when, where, and how I should plant and provide for the plants.

            When I work in the garden, I feel the vibrations of life. I witness the birth of glorious flowers, as well as the swallows that nest in a donated birdhouse every year. Best of all, I often devour my breakfast in the garden, snacking on organically grown, fresh and sweet blueberries, strawberries, raspberries, peas, spinach, carrots, cherry tomatoes, and beans. In addition, I get my daily allowance of sunshine, which helps ward off depression and keeps me connected to the earth.

           Nik loved to eat corn home grown by the farmer down the road. Nik claimed that Leonard's corn was the sweetest corn on the planet. The corn growing in Nik's garden has that special flavor. It tastes sweet and fresh, and watching the stalks grow tall and strong brings happy memories.

When Does It Get Better?

A newly bereaved parent recently asked me, when does it get better—when was I able to laugh again? Everyone heals at their own pace, I told her. For me, I experienced a shift in my perceptions at the year mark. I began to see shades of gray, rather than just the all-encompassing blacks of despair and denial mixed with the red shades of anger. In two years, I caught glimpses of blue skies, and at three years, I observed a double rainbow arcing over Nik’s memorial garden. I felt like I could reach out and touch the gentle pastels. The world, I realized, was still beautiful.

Unfortunately, the empty void, the null presence, never goes away. Nothing can replace the child that dies. But the rough roller coasterride smoothes out along the way. At first, I’d wake up everyone morning howling in despair. Those howls turned into sobs, which appeared anywhere, anytime, with or without my permission. I didn’t want to be seen in public, and when I did make a trip to town, I put on my “I’m fine” mask, which chafed my skin, burned my heart, and exhausted me. Nik died more than 5 years ago, and the mask now sits on a shelf in the music room, covered with a fine layer of dust.

The void still rears its ugly head. I’ll hear a song that reminds me of Nik, wear his apron when I bake, or see a young man that looks as handsome as my boy. My heart skips a beat, and those tears, that I know longer fear, grace my cheeks with moisture. I pause, and slip into the regrets and the missing. But it passes.

I remind myself everyday of my son’s courage, and when I find myself lacking that quality, I tell myself to honor my son with courageous behavior. As a result, I am doing things I always dreamed of, but never engaged in because of fear. Because of my son, I had the courage to learn the banjo and an assortment of other stringed instruments, and can stand in front of an audience and perform. For me, music is a gift. It heals my soul and gives my grief, my joy, my gratitude, and my voice, a positive outlet.

The grief journey is long and painful. But on the other side, I now appreciate life and no longer fear death. The colors are brighter, the laughter is real, and the tears are an accepted part of my everyday life. Every day is not a double rainbow, but when one shines upon my horizon, I stop whatever I am doing, enjoy the moment, and count my blessings.