Granite Countertops

I wish you had granite counter tops,

sleak and strong, easy to clean.

Something solid for you to lean on

when you needed to do some leaning.

I wish you had a fine soft quilt

made with a reliable backing,

Topped with your favorite colors,

so that you could wrap yourself in a smile.

I wish you health and happiness,

 the flow of words forever,

and a pure clear voice to sing them

forth into the world.

I wish you had granite counter tops,

strong and sleak, easy to clean

something solid to lean on,

when you feel like you’re falling.

Too Brief

Too brief

The days of summer

The air heavy and light

Like a hot balloon

Floating.

Too brief

Your short life

Ended before it began

Like a bolt of lightning

Flashing.

Too brief

The glimpses of sanity

Knitted between bouts of insanity

Like the threads of your shirt

That I still wear.

Too brief

Your scent no longer lingers

And the shirt has scars

Like the ones across my heart

But I don it anyway.

Yield

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It’s not that he didn’t yield. He was just too fast, and he missed the turn, and the car rolled and flipped, landing in front of the yield sign on Colburn Colvert road, a few miles from home.

He missed, and I miss him. He died a day before his 18^th birthday, and his friends gathered at the yield sign by the crash site, decorating it with flowers, a Happy Birthday banner and festive balloons. Best of all, they signed the yield sign.

My daughter and I coated the sign with a thin layer of varnish, hoping to preserve those signatures, and every year on Nik’s birthday, we’d drive out to the crash sign to resign the sign.

Weather in North Idaho is rough on signatures, roads, and road signs, and one year, an acquaintance came up to me and said, “You need to go get your sign.” At first, I had no idea what she was talking about. Exasperated with me, she said, “Nik’s sign came down during the last storm. I dragged it to the side of the road. You need to go get it.”

I stopped at the hardware store to purchase a few tools, and headed straight to the accident site. The roads, coated in ice and slush, were hazardous, and I was grateful for studded tires. The sign, heavy and bulky, fit snugly in the trunk of my car, and I drove home feeling like I had rescued a lost treasure.

Sandy, my step-dad, made a post for the sign, and we planted it in Nik’s memorial garden. The original signatures have faded, but every year, we resign the Yield in memory of Nik.

Nik’s garden grows around the sign, a display of colors as bright and beautiful as the fireworks on the Fourth of July. The hummingbirds sip of the nectar hanging above his sign, and the red-winged general feasts on the sunflowers in the glass bird feeder (another gift for the garden).

The garden, a magical paradise teaming with glorious life, helps center my sometime turbulent grief that, at times, explodes like a young volcano. The flowers, the fruit, the vegetables grow in spite of my bereavement, reminding me that life does go on, and providing me with the opportunity to stop and smell the lavender while counting my blessings.

Healing Garden

        

        

         Gardening is a wonderful activity that improves quality of life. Gardening helps people engage with the outdoors, which helps people become more aware of their surroundings, and more aware of time and seasonal activities. Best of all, gardening encourages the exposure to fresh air, sunlight, and exercise.

            My garden is a healing garden, a living, breathing memorial for my son, Nikolas. Nik’s garden, a hodgepodge of rocks, flowers, grass, vegetables, berries and shrubs, requires constant maintenance. An amateur gardener, I am blessed with numerous gardening friends that bring bulbs, shrubs, and flowers for my amusement. Even Nik's friends have made beautiful donations to his garden. Everyone provides detailed instructions on when, where, and how I should plant and provide for the plants.

            When I work in the garden, I feel the vibrations of life. I witness the birth of glorious flowers, as well as the swallows that nest in a donated birdhouse every year. Best of all, I often devour my breakfast in the garden, snacking on organically grown, fresh and sweet blueberries, strawberries, raspberries, peas, spinach, carrots, cherry tomatoes, and beans. In addition, I get my daily allowance of sunshine, which helps ward off depression and keeps me connected to the earth.

           Nik loved to eat corn home grown by the farmer down the road. Nik claimed that Leonard's corn was the sweetest corn on the planet. The corn growing in Nik's garden has that special flavor. It tastes sweet and fresh, and watching the stalks grow tall and strong brings happy memories.

When Does It Get Better?

A newly bereaved parent recently asked me, when does it get better—when was I able to laugh again? Everyone heals at their own pace, I told her. For me, I experienced a shift in my perceptions at the year mark. I began to see shades of gray, rather than just the all-encompassing blacks of despair and denial mixed with the red shades of anger. In two years, I caught glimpses of blue skies, and at three years, I observed a double rainbow arcing over Nik’s memorial garden. I felt like I could reach out and touch the gentle pastels. The world, I realized, was still beautiful.

Unfortunately, the empty void, the null presence, never goes away. Nothing can replace the child that dies. But the rough roller coasterride smoothes out along the way. At first, I’d wake up everyone morning howling in despair. Those howls turned into sobs, which appeared anywhere, anytime, with or without my permission. I didn’t want to be seen in public, and when I did make a trip to town, I put on my “I’m fine” mask, which chafed my skin, burned my heart, and exhausted me. Nik died more than 5 years ago, and the mask now sits on a shelf in the music room, covered with a fine layer of dust.

The void still rears its ugly head. I’ll hear a song that reminds me of Nik, wear his apron when I bake, or see a young man that looks as handsome as my boy. My heart skips a beat, and those tears, that I know longer fear, grace my cheeks with moisture. I pause, and slip into the regrets and the missing. But it passes.

I remind myself everyday of my son’s courage, and when I find myself lacking that quality, I tell myself to honor my son with courageous behavior. As a result, I am doing things I always dreamed of, but never engaged in because of fear. Because of my son, I had the courage to learn the banjo and an assortment of other stringed instruments, and can stand in front of an audience and perform. For me, music is a gift. It heals my soul and gives my grief, my joy, my gratitude, and my voice, a positive outlet.

The grief journey is long and painful. But on the other side, I now appreciate life and no longer fear death. The colors are brighter, the laughter is real, and the tears are an accepted part of my everyday life. Every day is not a double rainbow, but when one shines upon my horizon, I stop whatever I am doing, enjoy the moment, and count my blessings.

Out of the Dark

The dark of grief blossoms in grey pedals shaded in crimson. The seasons do not change, and it feels like terminal winter, as the ice forms around your heart, constricting and squeezing until it hurts to breathe.

The pedals of despair peel and chip, like an old china cup that you once treasured but has now lost its polish. You sweep up the debris and trudge carefully along the narrow path up a mountain, over a precipice. The bridge, wooden planks rotting and rope twine untwining, is frightening, but you hang on to a friend or faith or whatever comes your way, and tip toe across, longing for the light you see glimmering on the other side like a halo. You want to laugh again, to dance again, to wake in the morning without howling out your anger and despair.

Time passes without your permission, just like the child you no longer hold. You begged god to take you instead, but you are not in charge, and a voice whispers, the child did not belong to you. You are not god, you know that, but if you were, there would have been a different ending.

You make it across the rickety bridge, and on the other side, the gray shadows bloom into a double rainbow, which you can smell, taste, and touch. The pot of gold is acceptance, and the desire to keep on living even though he is dead. The pot of gold is your family and friends who stepped up to the plate when you couldn’t crawl out of bed.

Dear Nik

It’s been more than five years since you died, and this will be our sixth Christmas without you. The family and I have made progress on our grief journey, as we trudge through traditions, songs, and favorite recipes that remind us of you.

I think you would like the tree I cut down this year. I must admit, I missed having you here to do the heavy labor, but I did not miss the bickering over which tree we would select. Remember how I finally had to set down some guidelines, and we would alternate who got to choose the tree every year?

I set your special ornaments, the singing Santa, the nutcrackers, the statue of a black lab in a red hat, the train, and the snowboarding snowmen, in a special corner. The first Christmas without you, I could hardly bare to look at them. They still bring tears, but instead of bitter regrets and anger that you left us too soon, they evoke joyful memories of laughter and love.

Your sister still makes the chorizo fondue, and your grandma and I make the pumpkin pies. I grow pumpkins in your memorial garden, because as you know, real pumpkins make the most delicious pies. When I roll out the dough, I wear your apron, because it reminds me of you, and I secretly believe that act makes the pies taste better.

I finally got your dog, Chollo, a baby, Little Girl. She has brought much love and happiness into our lives. We have to take her on walks at least two times a day, and that has made Chollo and I much healthier.

We miss you Nik. We miss your sharp wit, your smile, your wonderful cooking, and your generous heart.