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.

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?