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.

11 months

Winter's bitter bullets

Winter’s bitter bullets are loosing their grip on the ground. Birds have returned to the meadow. I can hear their song. Can you? I gave a speech on how to act when someone dies. If a pin had dropped, I would have heard it fall. And then they all clapped. I wonder if any of them learned anything? If my words will encourage them to attend the next memorial that rears its ugly head into their busy schedules.

There was standing room only at your memorial. Did you realize how loved you were?

I digress. I feel like I’m wearing tap shoes and dancing through your death. Sometimes it’s a soft shuffle and sometimes it’s a jazzy reverberation driven on by tears that exhausts me. Last night I went to bed by 8 p.m.

I haven’t seen any signs of you lately, although I try to remain open to for that experience. I’m studying parental grief for my senior research project, and that has helped. Everyone I’ve asked wants to participate, and they all want to attend my presentation. It’s very touching.

But nothing takes away the hole your death has created. Like a giant vacuum that sucks away at my core.

I think about you everyday, Nik. And I miss your smile.

Every Day

by DaNae

She wants everyone to remember him; but its hard for the young to hold unto pain. We all try to use it to our advantage but afterwards we feel guilty, soiling the loved ones in our hearts. I'm sure they remember his name, and think of him occaisonally. Sometimes they laugh and maybe more often a lump forms in their throat, and the only way to make it go away is to cry, or pretend that everything is okay. And I think that a lot of them didn't learn the lesson Niko failed at. His death needs to have meaning for my mom, wants people to live and not throw themselves behind drugs. If ther is no point in his death, what can we do but continue to grieve? I miss him. Everyday.

Pain

I miss you so much. Sometimes, I can't wrap my brain around the missing. It's too big. You were so full of glorious life. How can you not be at all?

Headwall

Nik keeps drifting into my thoughts. Something about the bitter snow that is finally falling out of the sky like candy, innocent and free, and snowboarding down the slopes of Schweitzer in the middle of a storm. I remember buying Nik his first board, a used, child-sized Burton that I had to buckle to his foot every time he got off the lift. Nik snowboarded liked the Roman god Mercury with wings on his feet and helmet. He had a grace that seemed to defy gravity.

Ryan, his best friend and kindred spirit, already delivered some of Nik’s ashes to the South Bowl shoots, terrain I never could sojourn. I’ve waited for new snow to bring my boy back to Headwall, where he would always challenge me, “Come on Mom, let’s do Headwall. You can do it. Follow me.”

He forced me out of my comfort level, showing me new terrain, riding ahead of me and then waiting above a cliff or rock so he could wow me with his expertise. I liked the rear position, and like a mother hen, I’d keep track of my babies. Plus, I didn’t like him to see me board. I’m that slow.

We used to go up with their school. Once the principal saw me ski, he made an allowance and let me snowboard (the kids had to ski). I led packs of rookies to the backside, herding them into the Outback for a cup of hot chocolate, and then delivering them back to the bus. Once, Nik arranged for me to take his group, and they took me to Terrain Park so they could practice their tricks. I went through the half-pipe without falling. We went night skiing with discounted tickets, packing microwave popcorn and cups of soup. It was something we all loved to do, and eventually, I saved my pennies and every year bought season passes as Christmas presents.

Schweitzer is best in the middle of a storm. The fair weather skiers stay home and I can make fresh tracks every run. This year has been difficult. The winter started with a bang and then slammed the brakes on. I’ve kept a baggy with Nik’s ashes in my pocket, waiting for the perfect storm.

My friend, Monique, my brother, Rex, and daughter, DaNae and I loaded our gear and headed up this morning. We made fresh tracks on Loophole, and talked about bringing Nik to Headwall. We decided it was too crunchy off the groomers, and planned to send Nik from the top of Headwall, and then ride down the Ridge.
We peered over the edge of the run. The sky, laden with gray snow, felt heavy. I pulled the bag of ash out, and took my glove off. My goggles blurred with my tears as I set some of Nik’s ashes free. He flew down the slope, innocent and free.
Monique looked at me, and said, “Let’s do it.”

She dropped first, and DaNae and Rex followed her. As always, I came last. I stopped at Nik’s rock and emptied the bag. He did flips and kickers in the wind, and then, he was gone.

“Well, Nik got us to do Headwall,” Monique said.

“Yes, best run of the day,” Rex said.

I turned right, toward the quad, performing my famous (in my head) wide-angle turn, the one that keeps me from going too fast; the one that ensures I won’t fall and break my neck. We headed back to the Quad, took one more run, and then headed in for tea.

Birthday Present

I turned 50 yesterday. My sister and friend Monique planned a girls party, and we ate fabulous food, told stories, and laughed plenty. Mom gave me her best China, packed in a storage container, and Jenny gave me a killer set of tools. I cried a little when Bob Dylan sang “Where have you been my blue eyed son” in the background. That’s always been my favorite Dylan song, and of course, it made me think of Nik.

Last night, Nik came to me in my dreams. He had on a white mask. He seemed surprised to see me, and didn’t say anything. He reached across the table, and clasped my hand. I woke up sobbing, but was grateful for his gift.