Forgetting

It's been so long I forgot my log-in information. But I haven't forgotten you, Nik. I see you in the lake and on the mountain. The pain pierces like a sharp rock scraping against my skin. I want to be close to you. But then, I see an eagle flying across the Long Bridge, and the waves against the sky and the purple mountains-the beauty takes my breath away.

So I keep chipping away at the grief. I still cry at least once a day, and then, I put my armor back on and go out for battle. I have longer moments of awareness and I can laugh again. I hope that I appreciate the wind and the eagle more now, aware how fragile life can be.

I turned 51 but you did not come to me in my dreams. Or if you did, I don't remember. But I still think about you every day. I miss your hands, your blue eyes, your smile and your cooking.

name poem

Desire
Escapes me
Summer saps
Innocence with its death
Rays and I say my son is
Everywhere but here.

poetry

I went to a poetry workshop this evening and read a poem from this blog, and tomorrow I will read "Open Sky." I don't consider myself a poet, but still. Words seem to diffuse the pain; somehow they soften the blow. Perhaps, the act of creation helps smooth my rough edges.

I cried when I read, in front of people I had just met. Whatever. I don't care. Perhaps my words will help ease someone else's pain. Perhaps sharing my experience can soften their rough edges.

I don't know. It's late and the summer crawls along. I weed and water and try to train my sister's horse. I sleep a lot and have read a bunch of books. Diversions. Tricks to tick the tock and survive the day.

Nik's poppies have blossomed and yellow lillies brighten his garden. The rock walkway is almost complete and I made a rough start on the wall. I can't move the heaviest rocks. And Nik's not here to help me.

We went to San Pedro and walked along the beach. The boys said that you used to ride for hours along the coast line. We hiked down a cliff and then everyone took a handful of your ashes and found a spot to set you free.

I remembered when we went to Hawaii. You loved the tide pools, and so I let you go in a tide pool. Hermit crabs scampered across the rocks and the wind tasted of salt (or was that just my tears?)

We miss you, Nik. Everyday.

the morning

I feel your presence when the wind whips through my hair, billowing your shirt tails about my waist. I confiscated the gray one with black checkers and short sleeves along with your pajama bottoms. Comfort clothes. They don’t smell like you anymore, but still. Your essence lingers.
The birds frolic in the yard, dive-bombing, dancing, playing tag. The General, a red winged blackbird, perches on top of the bird feeder Aunt Jenny and Grandma bought for your memorial garden. A regal fellow, commanding presence, piercing song, who picks out the black sunflower seeds, scattering everything else on the ground.

I long to run my hands through your thick hair and listen to you play the bass. Sometimes, this wretched ache in my heart threatens to devour me. Sometimes, I want to let go and join you. Sometimes, I crawl in my bed in the middle of the day, and my tears fill the pillow and I have to turn it over or I’ll drown.

And then, I go outside and dig up rocks, catching their edges on the shovel head, prying them from the ground, lugging them in the wheel barrow, and fitting them in the walkway like the pieces of a puzzle. Two strawberries have ripened, and the blueberries thicken on the bushes. The work, monotonous yet somehow soothing, seems to smooth over my rough edges. It helps me sleep at night.

I hugged you in my dreams. You were tall and golden, whole and happy. You laughed, and I danced in your shadow.

Daylight pierces through the drapes; white wisps of clouds coat an otherwise blue sky, and the swallows continue their waltz, wild and free, innocent.

I miss you.

Happy Birthday

DaNae and I drove wrote Nik a letter and tied them to balloons. We drove up to Schweitzer Mountain and released them. They flew so high. Finally, they disappeared and we headed down the hill and stopped at the crash site. We shared a cup of white mocha latte and left a third of it for Nik, along with a birthday balloon and some flowers.

I made it through the death day and his birthday. I bought him a blue spruce and planted it in the front yard. I moved rocks into the memorial garden and planted some flowers.

It's hard to swallow my anger. His friends go on, drinking and drugging in his name. Didn't anyone learn anything? At times, I hate them for their stupidity, for not taking his keys, for letting him drive that night, for getting to live when he died.

I miss his laugh. I miss his smile. I miss his smell. I cry my tears; I graduated from LCSC; I think about him every single day.

The Croscuses

Winter’s bitter bullets have lost their grip on the ground and I can hear the birds singing in the meadow. The receding snow line left a wake of last years litter and created a river in the backyard, and the snowplow girl dug the plow to deep and mowed the lawn with gravel.

I hiked up the ridge that separates my property from big John’s in search of rocks. Deer had already cut a path through bracken and brush, and I followed their sign, skirting over dead wood and jumping over the muck and mush. Cholo, my son’s black lab, misses making dog angels in the snow but enjoyed wading in the new river.

It’s important to be prepared when you hike. I wore boots with good traction, a baseball cap to protect me from the brilliant sun, and carried jelly bellies (popcorn and peanut butter are my favorites) and the green water bottle my daughter gave me for my 50th birthday in my backpack.

We traversed along the ridge and then headed up toward bear cave. Although we had spotted bear sign down by Herrmann Lake, I hadn’t seen any around my place, and figured fearless Cholo would protect me from all harm.

The annoying “cheeseburger” birds harped at me, a woodpecker added percussion, and a goose couple blasted their trumpet duo as they flew toward Herrmann Lake.

The cave, a shelter of rocks really, offered some shade. I sat and ate a couple (ok, about 20) jelly bellies and gulped some water. Amazingly enough, my bad knee gave me no grief, and I hadn’t broken a sweat.

I picked up two heart shaped rocks, one with a white line down the middle, the other, a bit bigger and deep purple, and stuffed them in my bag. My son Nik loved rocks. One summer we drove to Calif. and stopped at numerous rest spots. He searched for volcanic rocks and saved them in the trunk of our car. We went to Hawaii and he packed sand and stones in a plastic bag; his suitcase weighed twice as much on the return trip.

I taught Nik how to drive on the back roads of Marijuana knob. We combed the dirt roads for garden rocks; loading up the truck with slate earned him time behind the wheel. When I moved to Sagle last fall, I dug up the prettiest ones and hauled them to the new house. The neighbors must have thought I was crazy, because the land here is already rock heavy.

But the rocks I moved were heavy with memories, and I wanted them for Nik’s memorial garden. We intend to build a rock wall around the perimeter, which means I get to collect rocks wherever I go.

Cholo and I headed down the ridge, and I picked up two more heart shaped stones. We got home, and I added my plunder to the growing pile of rocks near the garden.
And now that spring has sprung, I can start breaking ground. The shovel feels good in my hands and the sun radiates a warmth I haven’t felt all winter. New grass spits out splotches of green on an otherwise brown horizon, and I saw crocuses dotting the landscape.

Next spring, the crocuses will bloom in Nik’s garden, next to his tree, the memorial block Monique made, the rocks Michelle painted, the glass bird feeder, the no moose crossing sign and snowboard bench. His ashes will feed the earth, his essence will linger, and his spirit will soar with the birds.