Rain

A long drawn out Autumn falls flat and rain cascades from a gray sky. The garden has been put to bed, the horse fence fixed, the hay covered, the greenhouse dismantled, the wood cut and stacked. Each piece of wood could hold a memory--good, bad, or indifferent, haunting and hallow or happy and hypnotic. I'll burn them in the wood stove, and watch the flames reach for the stars. I reach for you in my dreams, perhaps we dance, perhaps we talk, I hope we hug. 

Blue Wings

Stand Tall

Nik used to look into my face as if he were memorizing every line. He scooted along the floor like a turtle, rather than crawl, and he would stop in his track, raise his head, and peer at his surroundings. We called him turtle for a short time. He adored his big sister, DaNae, and she would hold him up on the couch and cuddle him. They had a strong bond, those two, strengthened by years of love. Fighting and bickering, a regular occurrence only seemed to tighten the bond, rather than breaking it.

DaNae had just turned 20 when Nik died, and her biggest problem was discovering that many of her friends refused to let her deal with his death. It was simpler for them to ignore the elephant in the room. It’s not that they didn’t love her, it’s that they didn’t understand the grieving process. They didn’t know what to say, how to act, or how to be there for her.

Time, I think, has softened the rough edges, and perhaps, decreased the size of the hole Nik’s death left in her heart. She misses her brother, and dreams of him often. She wears a Nik necklace at all times, and has his name tattooed on her foot, because he always helped her stand tall.

The Harvest

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I harvested green tomatoes from the garden, rescuing them from a killing frost, rubbing them dry and stuffing them into a brown bag. They sit in the darkness to ripen red, and then I’ll freeze them whole, and use them in winter stews and soups.

Nik didn’t like gardening so much, but he loved to cook. Together, we made fried green tomatoes, green tomato jam, and chutney. We didn’t appreciate the fried green tomatoes or the green jam, but the chutney had a unique flavor that tasted good in eggs, curry, chicken, and beans.

Although I continue to garden, relishing the dirt underneath my fingernails and the observance of life, I can’t seem to get myself to turn my bounty into canned goods. The process, heavy labor, is lonely without my son’s glowing smile and his daring cooking antics. When he died, my ability to can died with him, and the glass jars we used to fill with our produce from the garden sit in a shelf, collecting dust.

I’ve learned other ways to harvest the garden goods. The herbs I dry in the green house, and I freeze corn, squash, tomatoes, and this year, basil and peppers. The pumpkins I still render into pumpkin gook, so that I can make Nik’s pumpkin pie during the holidays.

Blue skies touched by a wisp of gray clouds hovers outside my window, as I finish my morning coffee, and prepare myself for another day of garden clean up. I miss you Nik, every day.

In an Empty Room

Picture on the Wall

Post by Desiree Aguirre.

Rock Hard

Nik slips into my thoughts with practiced ease. At first, these thoughts were rock hard, overwhelmingly powerful and painful. Time eases the edges, wears them smooth, like seawater on glass. But sometimes, I see someone that reminds me of my son, and the reminding feels like a vacuum, a bottomless pit, and the thought of my son, my beautiful boy, dead and gone, ashes to ashes and dust to dust, while this imposter walks tall and proud, sends me backward in time, and the vacuum sucks me in.

And I wonder how I can keep on keeping on without him. How I can live and breathe while he is not at all. It’s as if the swift passage of time has come undone, and I am back to square one, set a drift in a sea of agony.

I feel small and powerless, like a pebble caught in the current, tumbling and turning. I tell myself that my tears, wet salt water, will once again smooth over my grief. In the morning, new lines will be etched on my face.