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.
