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.
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