The cell phone

I can’t find my cell phone or write. Nothing makes sense. Nik had blue eyes, olive colored skin, and thick black hair. John Gardner says not to write about what you know, but Nik slips into my thoughts with practiced ease. I can’t get him out of my head.

A seatbelt would have saved him, and I wonder why he didn’t buckle up. His arrogance swallowed him as surely as the alcohol he consumed. I can’t seem to write fiction when the nonfiction consumes all my words.

My barn has wrinkled white walls and faded blue trim. The horse ate all the hay this year, and I’m scraping the bottom layer, trying to feed any available debris to the beast.

She’s not really a beast. I am. If I could do it over, I would. I’d take his keys away and ground him for a month. I wouldn’t let him out of my sight. I’d hug him, kiss him, and tell him I loved him. I’d drag him to AA meetings, guard him, and protect him. I’d sell the car I gave him for his graduation present. I’d send him back to California. I’d take his anger and hatred if only he would live.

I prayed for a boy because I knew my husband, 25 years my senior, would die before me. I wanted to have his carbon copy. How ironic that they would die the same death, 15 years, 6 days and 2 hours a part. The cars flipped over ejecting them through the windshields. Nik, I am told, was killed instantly. His car crushed him. Bob lived for a few hours. It cost $5,000 for him to die.

The barn has a fresh scar from when I tried to back the trailer into it. My daughter said, “Mom, you shouldn’t try backing things up when you’re upset.” I gave up trying to put it in the barn. Besides which, the barn now houses the old doors, riddled with holes, from Nik’s room, his waterbed, desk, a broken wheelbarrow, extension chord, empty bag of feed, a pile of hay baling string, the snow thrower that refuses to start in the winter but always fires up in the summer, and the lawn mower that Nik used to cut the grass with.

Every night I wonder if tomorrow will be the day I don’t have to cry. But whenever I think that, the tears spring leaks in my eyes, dripping down my weathered cheeks and into my mouth. Worse yet, my snuff stained nose begins to drip brown snot. I can’t help myself. It’s as if I’m trying to stuff my loss with whatever I can to fill the leak.

People tell me I’m courageous and brave. I don't feel strong, but I do feel like a soldier with my armor, the necklace I had made with my son’s ashes on a chain around my neck. I will not stuff Nik out of mind, out of site, or out of memory. I will confront my grief and face it. I will talk about it and about him. I have to make it count for something. Does that make sense?

I can’t help it. When Bob died, I got a week off from work, and then was expected to perform as if nothing had happened. I never told one single customer what had occurred. Because I didn’t know a thing about death, I didn’t write an obit for him. It was easier, or so I thought, not to let anyone know. It amazed me how no one could tell I was walking around like a ghost.

My cell phone. Where did I lose it this time? I didn’t want to get one, but Nik convinced me too. Now I feel half naked without it. And I disconnected the landline because of the cost of the cell phone. Screw it.

Anyway, the only reason it would ring at this time of the night would be for bad news.

Grief is a physical force

I have learned that grief is a real physical force, like love. It is, really, an integral part of love. Indeed, the stronger the love, the harder the grief.

I have discovered not to fear grief and to handle it with respect. Like love, it can tie one in knots and drown one in despair. Like love, it causes the soul to expand and grow.

When my husband died, leaving me with two small children, I did not understand grief. I thought I had to do it all by myself and would not let others help me. My daughter’s school tried to give us a turkey for Thanksgiving dinner. I felt insulted and told them no thanks. I didn’t realize that they were just trying to help us. People will fall all over themselves trying to help the bereaved and really, most of them don’t know what to do.

When Nik died, I had enough experience with grief to know what not to do. And for this round, I have reached out and utilized everything to express my grief and move through it with as much grace as possible.

So, when a neighbor saw me on the street and asked me if I wanted my yearly lamb, I said yes. He told me, “It’s free.” I said, “Thank-you.”

Dreaming

I dreamed of Nik last night. The car was wrecked but he had survived, and we were looking at new cars. Perhaps in some other dimension a luckier Nik and a relieved Desire` continue to live together in some kind of harmony.

But in this slice of space, he died, leaving a rip in my heart. Why do I keep picking at the scabs?

The sun leaks into my livingroom and I go about my daily chores. I want to be a better person for you my blue-eyed boy. I wish Nik was here.

Finding Forgiveness

We never asked Grandma
how she felt
because she would produce
a bag of pills
and a long list of health issues
ailing her.

My son, Nik, died in a car accident
and my aunts decided
not to tell Grandma.
It was, after all,
about our unfolding grief.
Not her.

Grandma came for an
unexpected visit.
She seemed frail,
shrinking beneath her shawl,
blue eyes bright
and lips painted crimson.

I remembered picking cherries
and pomegranates
in her backyard,
the juice shading my chin
the color of her lipstick.

I took her hand in mine,
her cold fingers long and thin,
leaned close and kissed
her wrinkly rice paper cheek.
“Grandma,” I said. “I love you.”

The only thing you have to do...

The only thing you have to do is grieve.
Say it, shout it, dance with it.
One word that encompasses all the pain,
The memories, sharp, clear
Poignant.

So take off your happy face
And cry into your pillow.
Walk across the floor in ugly old sweats
Sit on the couch and look
At his picture on the piano.

To swift the passing of his years
And my life spread before me
Like a quilt with infinite possibilities
His stuffed beneath the Ford Explorer
I bought him for graduation.

Remember when it gets too much,
The only thing you have to do is breath.
Take in the wind across the lake and
The fuzzy pink dawn
The blue heron on the bank
Like a winged god.

So put grief on the shelf.
Wrap it up for a rainy day or
A song that sparks his memory.
Open it up and caress it
Like you used to hold him
In your arms while
He suckled at your breast.

Walking for Nik

Beautiful blue skies beckon on a somewhat chilly February day. Last year, snow capped in grime covered the campus and it was difficult to walk to class, much less meander the beach.

Today, I took a walk for Nik. He lived in Coeur d’Alene for a short while attending college, and I’d meet him for coffee or take him to Costco to stock him up on juice and top ramen. We’d stroll across campus, Nik in a hurry, and me just delighted to be with him. He’d be headed for 20 had he lived; instead, he never broached 18.

But I see him often in the eyes of eager young men in my classes. Last semester, a kid in my art class had his sharp wit and crooked smile, and another young man straddles the thin line between law and disorder, just like Nik did.

Sometimes, I have to go to the bathroom to cry. My glasses get smeared and my nose drips. But I welcome the jarred bittersweet memories because they make me feel closer to my boy.

Anyway, the Canada geese were calling, and I bolted from the stuffy classroom, camera strapped around my neck, and headed down to the beach wishing Nik were here with me. When he was little, we spent plenty of time at city beach swimming or at the Pack River Bridge. He always tried to convince me to jump with him, but I could never get the courage to take the plunge. I did go off the rope swing a couple times, but really, I mainly enjoyed watching my kids have fun in the water.

The volleyball nets were still set up in the middle of winter, joggers ran by in shorts, bicyclists sped along the pathway and young lovers held hands near the dock. A skateboarder cruised by with Nik’s black hair, and I smiled remembering Nik on his board. He didn’t like the taste of cement, and decided he preferred watching his friends or riding his bike.

He had his bike in the back of his Ford Explorer the day of the accident and it was mangled beyond redemption. That day, he had bugged me to find oil for his chain, and I’m glad I grudgingly found it for him. I admit it, I was grouchy that afternoon, but I took the time to tell him I loved him. And then he was gone.

At times, it feels like this waiting to see him again is like forever. But then, I see that kid with the crooked smile, the sun shines, the sky is as blue as his eyes were, and the chickadees are singing “hey sweetie.” Sometimes I think experiencing the death of a child has made me more aware of the beautiful things around me. When I’m feeling the lowest and don’t know how I’ll get through another minute, the Canada geese come back along the horizon or an eagle greets me as I cross the Long Bridge.

We live in a beautiful place. So, get out and enjoy it.

Underground

It feels like going underground, she said.
Like a bunch of cotton balls stuffed in your head.
Kind of like a cold from hell.
And it hurts to breath.

So I’m not going
to that frigid land of depression
where every day
dons another suit of led
zipped tight around clammy skin.

I’ll face my grief-
look it in the eye
up close and personal
knife in hand
slashing at long tentacles
tied to the deep dark depths

of mixed up emotion,
where lies live and love dies.
Where hope diminishes
with every wretched breath.

I want to laugh and cry
with reckless abandon
and thank god for every day
Niko was here.