Ashes

How can you be gone? You were so beautiful. So vitally alive. A strong presence. And now, all that remains is ashes in a box and a hole in my heart that sometimes threatens to consume me.

Our lives are as weak as paper burning

Picture this: paper burning. Flames lick the edges. They curl, brown, and peal away like dead skin. Smoke saturates, encompasses and crowns the air. Black appears, consumes and eats the white, while the yellow fire grows with power, grins triumphantly in gold and laughs in red/orange/crimson.

Picture this: the car misses the turn and leaves the road, overturning. Everything is flying, the boy behind the wheel, the bikes in the back, the cell phone that I never find. Tumbling, tossing, flying momentarily with eerie grace. Smacking the tree, eating the ground; the tree sheers and cries with anguish. The boy dies with the night and the bright stars as his only witness.

The wheels spin and then, all is silence.

Our lives are as weak as paper burning. One snow capped Iris blooms in his garden, like a lost angel, and baby blue swallows sing a hungry song from the bird-house. I long to look in, to see them in their innocence. I satisfy myself with sitting on the snowboard bench, witnessing the proud parents dance, watching them bring food to their young.

Charlotte's Web

Muffled in memories, I walk my brain to the Panida, where DaNae and Nik Aguirre, the youngest goslings in “Charlotte’s Web” made their debut as “Petunia” and “Buster.” Garbed in soft yellow cloth and bright puddle boots, they marched across the stage in a tight train of feathers.

I rewind the video and watch the play with fresh eyes. DaNae, now 22, still loves the theater and will make another debut in a play at the Panida in October, while her younger brother, Nik, died in a car accident a day before his 18th birthday.

The tape rolls on, and the goslings scamper across the stage. They fall like a stack of dominoes, and the mother goose swings each one up and they call out their name. “Petunia,” DaNae says, grinning triumphantly. Buster, in typical Nik fashion, scoots backwards on his bottom away from his parent. She captures him and the audience laughs. “Buster,” Nik shouts. The audience claps.

Bogged Down

The rain and mud didn’t detour me from trying out my new chainsaw. And when Big Blue high centered on a hidden stump I finished the job by burying three of her wheels into the bog.

I used to plow the driveway out with an ATV, and got it stuck at least once a year. Niko would always come out and help dig me out. He’d tell me to go inside and take a break. When a neighbor slid into the ditch, Niko would go out into the dark and shovel them out. He could be difficult sometimes, but he had a big heart and never grumbled at having to rescue me or some stranger. And he never asked for nor expected any compensation. He did it because he wanted to.

But Nik wasn’t here to unstick me this time, so I called my brother, Rex. And like Nik, he came with a smile, a shovel, and the tools to help me. Plus, he reminded me of the time he had gotten stuck in the backyard, assuring me I wasn’t the only person to find themselves in such a muddy situation.

I’m glad I have family and friends to help me through the bogs.

We miss you, Nik. Every day.

Anger turned upside down = depression

It pisses me off that so few mention your name. That they put me on a pedestal because I didn't relapse when you died. That the rain falls as surely as my tears. That you died and I miss you everyday. That I didn't get a big enough scholarship to go to grad school. Didn't I work hard for it? Don't I deserve it? When I was in college, I had a goal, and that kept me going in a positive direction. That gave me a purpose. And now, I feel lost. And anger burns, so I hold it in and now I have a blister growing in my brain. But even the blister doesn't erase the guilt, the loss, the hopelessness I feel. I'm like a dog paddling through the sewer and the smile that I pasted on my face to fake my way through every hour has turned into a bitter grimace. Why didn't you wear your seatbelt?

I can't seem to forget...

She barfs words into the phone
I hold them to my ear
And scream silence into a purple pillow
She can’t see that I can’t get no satisfaction
With the birthday blues
May the month of mixed blessings
And dreams built like clichés falling
into a void of skipped numbers and
things I can’t seem to forget.

Mixed up month

May is a mixed up month. Spring boxes with winter, and the daffodils bloom in spite of a cold north wind bringing with it hard hail that bites and bruises.

It's difficult to write my last column for The Sentinel, especially the day after Nik's birthday, which this year fell on Mother's Day. I don't want this to be a sad column, but it's hard to be happy when the May wind rips through the hole in my heart. I miss my son, and this year, dreaded the special day set aside for all moms.

So, instead of participating in production day weekend at The Sentinel, my daughter and I drove to the crash site to visit the place Nik died. We smoked a camel cigarette in his memory and resigned the yield sign near the tree his car hit.

Later, we planted two trees for Nik, a flowering Hawthorne and a dwarf peach. We dug into the rich soil, unearthing three boulders and several worms. The sun flitted in and out, threatening rain. We put the trees in their holes, added a handful of Nik's ashes, a shovel full of horse manure, and potting soil.

When Nik died, I didn't think I would ever write again, much less return to college. But I had tasted the ravages of grief when my husband died May 2, 1993, and I could not go down that dangerous dark path again. I made a decision to live, and returned to finish my senior year at LCSC to study parental grief.

A year later, I came back to NIC as the online editor and got to take art classes. I used words and art to help me trudge through my mourning. And these tools have given me new perspectives on life.

I will especially miss The Sentinel, Nils Rosdahl, our adviser, and the talented students I have worked with. I am grateful to both LCSC and NIC in giving me a voice for my grief. Because I have a voice, I can still sing, in spite of the cold wind that howls in my heart and the never ending longing to be with my son.

May, the month of mixed blessings. Two blue birds have taken up residence in Nik's garden. I will get to watch them build their nest and see their babies take their first flight.

Life is glorious.
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