Happy 2018

The new year comes in waves of white--fresh snow falls, covering the ground where you once walked in a million cold crystals. The holidays, the harborers of memories, fades beneath the white, as I dismantle the Christmas tree and wrap your ornaments and stow them safely in a box, breathing a sigh of relief, as I have once again survived the celebrations and the missing of You. Of course, I miss You everyday, but the holidays seem to hold more poignant memories, and everyone else goes along with the ho ho ho and the hallelujahs without a whisper of your name. Niko, I say out loud in my room, sitting at my desk, a picture of us as a family on summer holiday, our arms wrapped around each other, staring at me. I love You, I miss You, I hold You in my heart. Happy New Year.

Grief Can Be Sneaky

Grief can be sneaky. Just when I think I have it licked, I wake up with a tear streaked pillow, and the tape of my son’s death day looping through my brain. The first year the tape played more often, and I’d find myself clinging to the hope that it was all just a horrible nightmare. Now I know the hard truth, force myself out of bed, give myself permission to cry, and maybe add a little extra sugar and cream to my coffee, to sweeten the day.

Of course, the holidays tend to bring out the tape, as my brain travels back in time. Now, at least, I focus on positive memories, tactile and poignant, like the apron I gave my son one year for Christmas. He loved to cook, and we used to make the pumpkin pies together. So, every year I grow pumpkins in his memorial garden, and every Thanksgiving I wear his apron and turn the pumpkins into golden pies. 

The pies, made with love, touched with healing tears (just the right amount of salt), always taste delicious. They remind me of the time I had with my son, the laughter we shared, the joy he brought to my world. I hope your holidays are filled with joyful memories, that your pies are tasty with love, and that you allow yourself to shed salty tears that will help heal your heart.

Setting an Extra Plate for Thanksgiving

A friend of mine sets an extra plate at the Thanksgiving table to honor members of her family that have died. At first, I thought this was strange, but I try to stay open to new ideas. In fact, the more I thought about setting a plate for my son, Niko, the more I liked the idea.

The first Thanksgiving without Niko was a silent affair, as the family gathered, unsure what to discuss, afraid to mention his name, worried about spilling salty tears on the stuffing. Every Thanksgiving has become a bit easier, as time has a way of smoothing over the rough edges of grief.

This Thanksgiving, I’ll wear Niko’s Thanksgiving apron (he loved to cook) as I make the pumpkin pies from pumpkins grown in Niko’s memorial garden. I will set an extra plate at the table, in memory of the boy that died on the cusp of manhood. We will tell Niko stories, and raise our glasses high, remembering his laughter, his sharp wit, and his impish smile. 

Autumn Falls

October arrives with a hint of snow to cover the golden leaves that have fallen, graceful, to the ground. You, Nikolas Jesus, my son, flew out of your car, spinning, falling, dying on the ground like a lost leaf. A seat belt would have saved you.

I imagine you, golden wings held high, flying above the clouds, spinning and whirling, performing jumps as if you had a snowboard attached to your feet. Your spirit lives on. I think of you every time I get on stage to perform my music. I think of you whenever someone makes a sharp and witty remark. I thought of you when your sister walked down the aisle to marry her fiancée, Ryan Black, on Friday, October 13.

I thought she would ask me to walk her down the aisle, since her dad, brother, and uncle were dead. But she had other plans. She said, “I always thought Nik would take me down the aisle. So I’m taking the walk alone.”

“No,” I replied. “When you walk down that aisle, you will be covered by three sets of angel wings.”

When she took her walk, the rain stopped, and through the patches of blue sky, I saw three sets of angel wings, covering her in a halo of love.

I miss you, Nik. Every day.

Shadows Cast a Different Light

Fall barks, as the leaves fade, and shadows cast a different light, softer, with a hint of yellow tinged with gold. Reluctant students and fretful parents check school supply lists, betweeen outings to the lake, the park, the beach. I sit on the banks of Herrmann Pond, watching the ducks dive, float, and frolic, as the geese practice their aerial arts, readying themselves for the long southern flight toward warmer waters. The hummingbirds sip the last of their nectar, as they too, stretch their wings for the long sojourn south.

My son has already flown the coup, toward a distant shore I have, for now, no access too. I think of the things he missed; no college graduation, no wedding, no children. Sometimes, I pretend that he simply headed south, that he is in Peru, a place he always wanted to visit, and I am simply waiting for a letter, an email, a text regarding his adventure. I look for signs, angel wings disguised as soft white feathers, a Monarch butterfly landing in his memorial garden, a flower that smiles with love.

I greet each day with a sad smile; I watch the children and parents ready for a new school year. I thank my higher power for the time, albeit too short, I had with my son.

Summer Sestina

Dogs bark,

calling out the first day of summer,

and children dive into calm waters,

while mothers watch

on their patch of sand,

thinking of walks in the rain.

Clouds and thunder that threaten rain

prepare to bark

with sermons to send summers’

passion into the sand

in a deluge of water

that runs like a watch.

I watch,

unobserved, behind the bark

of a willow tree, protected from rain,

but not recollections that flow like water

with the persistence of wet sand—

Hauntings of past summers. 

A breeze scented with summer 

grass and pink peonies rains,

staining the grains of sand

the color of bark

as time dissolves like a Dali watch.

My eyes fill with water.

Memories, like a glass slipper, sanded

smooth as azure water

on a hot summer

day, with no barking

breeze, divide the rain

into tears that leak like the seconds on a watch.

My Minnie Mouse watch,

wrapped around a wrist textured like sand,

continues to bark

out time in spite of rain

and years passing, swift as water,

distancing me from this summer.

The first day of summer, a dancing diva, 

barks, filling my head with lethal memories as heavy as sand.

I set them free, as if they were glad birds flying.

They cascade down my cheeks like raindrops.  

Mixed Blessings

Nik and his friend, Jackson, trekked to the back ten at the Samuels house, to Aguirre Island, in search of adventure. “Don’t go along the back fence,” I yelled, “it’s mired in muck.” No surprise, 30 minutes later, Jackson found me in the garden pulling weeds. The lower half of his body, coated in mud, made him look like some type of mutant cannibal.

“Nik’s stuck in the mud,” he shouted. “You have to come help.” “Sounds like I’ll need my camera,” I said, getting up from my knees, my hands as dirty as Jackson. My brother Rex, he lived on the property with us, pulled Nik out of the mud before I got my photo. I still have the after photo of Jackson and Nik, mud buddies, grinning; Nik with only one shoe, the mud having consumed the other.

May, the month of mixed blessings, coated in muddy memories, passed with no standing ovation. The snow, gone, the weeds, tall, and the daffodils, having reached out toward the sun, lost their sunshine, their pedals curling, browning, and disappearing into the soil. Nik’s memorial garden, glad of yellow light tinged in blue, erupts with color, the first iris bursting in purple, followed closely by the chocolates, the snow iris coming in a close third.

The garden at the Samuel’s house has passed into obscurity. Every new renter exclaimed that they loved to garden, and of course, would buy the house, eventually. By the time the fourth set of renters had moved in, the garden, once rich with raspberries, strawberries, an apple tree, mint, oregano, thyme, and of course, irises, was long gone, and I no longer believed that they would eventually buy the house. My hope was that they would pay the rent on time, and not destroy the carpet or paint the walls the color of baby poo.

Nik, he enjoyed working in the garden. The tomatoes were his favorite, because he wanted to use them to make salsa. Of course, he proclaimed that whatever he cooked was the very best. Like his father, he didn’t depend on recipes, but rather on his taste buds and his creativity. His cooking palette improved with age, like a fine wine. And although the tomatoes did not always ripen on time, we would put them in pager bags and let them color in the dark.

My kids, DaNae and Niko, and I canned back then—pickles, relish, and chutney. We experimented with fried green tomatoes, turned whole pumpkins into pies, made applesauce for Christmas presents, turned berries into sweet jam.

Nik’s memorial garden is mainly flowers that color my sometimes-dark horizon in a rainbow to remind me to smile. The Samuel’s house has finally passed to the final set of renters. We closed yesterday. A mixed blessing. A letting go of the home where my kids grew up. Joy that I am now debt free. May, the month of mixed blessings…

This House, live

I See You Wherever I Go...

Time flows, one-directional, never stopping or stalling, except in my brain. The month of May carries the heavy burden of your death, balanced by the day of your birth, me stuck in an endless time loop, still hoping I will awake to find I have been living in an alternative reality, and you, my son, are tucked in your bed snoring softly, like the purr of a cat.

But reality settles in when I leave my lavender scented sheets. I live in a different house, your sister, engaged to be married, lives in Seattle, your faithful dog, Cholo, has joined you in heaven, along with your uncle Rex, and I have just returned from warm beaches in Cuba to the cold spring of Idaho, a mixed up mess of weather as turbulent as the grief that waits to sucker punch me in the eye.

I carry you with me wherever I go in a locket that settles near my heart. On my trip to Cuba, a met an 18-year-old man/child with your smile. He had olive skin and a crooked smile, and as he spoke English, he became our guide on our ride to the city of Holguin in a 52 Dodge station wagon loaded with 11 passengers and the driver. Like you, he was willing and eager to lend us some assistance, making sure we had the best seats and reached our final destination.

You are forever stuck, a day before your 18th birthday, while time continues to march for me, giving me new wrinkles, new gray hair, new aches and pains. I shed a tear for our new Cuban friend, a man/child about to serve his country for two years, his mother’s eyes gleaming, like mine. I miss you, Niko. Everywhere. Everyday.

Spring Dreaming

Winter holds, gripping the ground in white, dripping from gray skies—heavy with sorrow, longing for the birth of spring, the joyful return of the chickadees singing, “Hey Sweetie.” I look out my kitchen window; when the snow crashed off the roof, the inside critters would cower in corners, whimpering, “the sky is falling.” A calico cat sits on the roof berm, looking into the house, begging me to open the window and let her in.

I let my grief in, remembering my blue-eyed boy, the young man who would shovel my roof and rescue neighbors that slid off the road in front of our house on long winter days. I look into his eyes, mine brimming with tears, and say, “I miss you.” In my mind, we hug, and he catches my tears, reminding me that the snow, and my tears, are all a part of the circle we call life, and that the spring will come, that the flowers in his garden will bloom, that the lavender flowers will send their scent to butterflies and bees, and we will all sing and laugh, that my life will go on, that he will wait for me on the other side, that he does not need to forgive me for my transgressions, because love is all that matters.

I watch the snow fall like laser lights, bright drops of sunshine to be, and I thank my higher power for the gift of my son, for the time we shared, for the love and courage he continues to deliver, even when he is not here with me in this physical dimension. He tells me that he lives on in my heart, and so will always be with me.

I remember the bitter days following his death. How getting out of bed became a chore, a drudgery, a forced action bereft of reason. I remember finding the courage to continue and to become a better person—a better mother to my daughter, a better student of life, a better daughter, sister, and friend. These small measures give me solace. They were a direct reaction to Nik’s death, and so, in some small measure, gave his death meaning.

I set aside my grief and suit up, donning my green airman’s suit, my wool socks, heavy winter boots, furry warm coat, felt hat, and gloves, and slowly make my way through the ice, the seasonal creek, the patches of melting snow to the barn, to feed the horses. Spring will arrive in a flourish of green. The birds will sing, and we will dance in Nik’s garden.