Happy Birthday, Niko

I try to celebrate your birthday.

It’s a matter of balance, a connection

Like the glass pendant—a confection of your ashes

That shattered into 3 pieces—

Symbolic of the hearts you broke.

But one can’t capture a free spirit

In glass.

I’ll light candles

And watch the greening of our world

As the band plays on

Without your laugh

Your blue eyes

Your devastating smile

Your sharp wit

And your hearty embrace.

We’ll never get over it.

But glory be for

The month of Maying

The years we had together, and

The family and friends that make life bearable.

May 8

Niko-May 8

I want to see you

Folding laundry, bowling, dancing,

Or petting the dog.

You longed for freedom

And celebrated your upcoming 18^th birthday

Like there was no tomorrow.

I untied my apron strings,

Tired of your manipulations,

And longing for your love.

Everything is catty-wampus

Now that you are gone.

Painful memories, past and present,

Rear their head

Like a voracious dragon

I slash them with a magic sword

And say, holy, holy.

The Day Time Stood Still

Pain sharpens my memory—and so the day of my son’s death remains harsh and clear—as if it was in digital format, and protected by my shield of grief. At first, the pain felt so overwhelming that I did not think I would survive. I didn’t think I would ever write, or live, or love, again.

The shield of grief weighed at least a ton and felt like a suit of led. Four fleeting years have passed, and I have worn off some of the weight.  Like a glad gardener, digging in the spring soil searching for the sprouts of flowers bursting with life, I remove my helmet of led and dig through my memories, bypassing May 8, the day before my son’s 18th birthday, the day of his death, the day time stood still.

Now, the shield of grief has weak spots worn on it, like the patches on my old jeans, and I can choose my memories. I do not want to completely remove my suit of led. Indeed, I decide to put it on, because I do not want to ever forget my son. But now, I can caress the soft spots, the patches, as if they were my favorite pants, soft and comfortable.  I remember his laugh, his sharp wit—his brilliant blue eyes. I remember him snowboarding like a Greek god, cooking breakfast, or scrambling across the soccer pitch. I focus on the good things I did for him, like letting him adopt a puppy at the animal shelter and buying him a bass.

Because of my beautiful son, I now have a new perspective on life. I am more willing not to dust, deciding to cherish that sometimes illusive and challenging entity, time, and take the moment to call a friend or play that song on my banjo one more time. I have learned how to put fear in the back seat, and experience new and exciting adventures.

At first, I did not have a choice. It hurt to breath, and the blooming of the crocuses was an insult to my mental state. Now, I dig in the garden, my tears feeding the flowers. I have opened my door to life, to love, to creativity. I have the courage to pick up pen, brush, or musical instrument, and let loves vibrations fill me. 

I can see through the shield of grief.  I can dig through my memories to find my son’s smile. He is always only a thought away. He has become timeless, and so, he will always have life. And in an effort to find meaning in his death, I have found new ways to live.

I miss you, Niko, everyday. Happy Birthday.

Birthday Cactus

Nik died in May, and shortly thereafter, three flowers bloomed on his Christmas cactus. It has grown, but never flowered again. Until this month. I sat, mesmerized, watching the white blooms push their way out of the green, swaying toward the light from the window. I cried when I realized that the cactus would be in full bloom for my birthday.

Nik had a good heart and was generous. He loved to give me presents, and I think the flowers were his special gift for my 53 birthday. I touched the first flower that came to fruition. It's pedals were as soft as angel wings. Why, I wondered, did I receive such a magnificent gift, when my son didn't get to celebrate his 18th birthday?

I lie underneath the plant, looking up at the flowers, and felt like I was surrounded by graceful angels. I watered them with my tears, and thanked Nik for his wonderful gift.

Festival

Another Festival bites the dust-did you see the fireworks? I raced with your cousin's children in the back field but I didn't name the fireworks as they blasted above the tent. I'm tired--too tired to sleep and too tired to cry. I never thought about having grandchildren until after you died. I always figured you would give me a handful, but you moved to the stars before you ever had the chance. I see you in the faces of the youngsters, the teenagers, the blue-eyed babies that fall asleep in their mother's arms. I used to hold you tight, and you would stare into my eyes as if trying to memorize every wrinkle.

Stronger Than Ever

People think I am stronger than ever. But it’s simply not true. Sometimes horrible things happen, and the cards we are dealt are simply, the cards we are dealt. I wish I could cheat at cards, and could give myself 5 aces or a full house. I wish Nik had lived and that I had a finished barn and a white picket fence. I wish I had been given a different cross to bear.

The trick, I suppose, is accepting the hand, and getting out of bed in the morning and lacing up your shoes. Certainly, Velcro helps considerably, as does surrounding my self with family and friends. That, I suppose, is the true gift.

Today, gray skies cry rain and a wicked wind brings with it the scents of spring. The snow recedes revealing the rocks the snowplow dredged up. Everyday I move a wheelbarrow full back to the driveway where they belong. Daffodils push their green heads out from the muddy ground, whispering for warmth and sunshine so they can give birth to radiant yellow flowers that mirror the sun. The horses wallow in their bog, rolling in the dirt, playing tag and digging for the new shoots of grass that I can see if I look hard enough, splayed out on the ground on my knees, picking up the unwanted gravel so that the new grass can survive.

What's My Worth?

Friends, what am I worth?

I had the kids over for dinner last night. It was an impromtu gathering. Shy, DaNae’s new room mate, loves pie, so I donned Nik’s apron, pretended to be Mom, and baked a blueberry pie.

The house smelled like warm pie and refried beans. Jenny brought over a bottle of wine, which everyone but me had a taste of. In the middle of dinner, Ryan called and asked if he could drop by.

When he stepped in the door, I demanded, take off your shirt. I want to see your tattoo. His girlfriend, tall, slender, blond, a perfect match for Ryan, smiled. He asked for some of Nik’s ashes, so that when he has the tattoo retouched, he can blend some of the ash into his flesh. DaNae grabbed Nik’s box and we scooped out a couple tablespoons of his gray ash.

DaNae and Ryan talked about old times, camping in the back yard and jumping through bon fires. I covered my ears. Her gang left laden with leftovers—beans, taco meat and the rest of the pie.


I gave Ryan the necklace I bought him over a year ago, saying, “You know, I got pissed at you and almost gave this away. But I decided to wait for you.” We both cried. When they left, he kept turning to give me one more hug. “You’re my other mother,” he said.

And that makes me feel worth plenty.