This House

He would always run.

His flat feet carried him far from home,

toward a distant serenade,

where his laughter

lit up hearts in blue,

like a summer sky.

Now I kiss the clouded sky;

his life in this dimension ran

its course like a plush blue

flame that licked our layered home

with anger and laughter—

a dysfunctional family serenade.

I serenade

the shadowed night sky,

remembering his laughter,

choosing not to run

from his home

filled with memories coated in blue.

The days, painted pale blue,

like a soft serenade,

with lyrics that say “come home,”

filling the bare sky

in gray clouds that run

with raindrops. I miss his laughter.

My loud laugh,

a sparkled blue

cacophony, has returned. It runs

like a Calypso serenade

to life filled sky.

His memories reside in our home.

They say home

is the heart, but I prefer laughter

that reaches the sky,

that stretches into sparkly blue.

A joyful serenade

With ebb and flow, like a river running.

This house, a kaleidoscope of red, gold, and blue,

the colors of lemon laughter, a silky serenade of love,

a silver sky running with hope.

My Brother's Cats

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My brother’s smarty cats

go on walks,

following me in a non straight line,

stopping to smell the dazzling scents,

or climbing

up a succulent tree.

The sister willow trees
we find on our walk,

with twisted lines,

house muskrats that climb

beneath gray roots that scent

the waters of Herrmann pond as surely as a cat.

My brother used to climb

to the top of apple trees,

reaching for branches lined

with fruit.  Bitch, his black cat,

nose in the air, walked,

looking for him by scent.

I planted an Alpine tree.

It grows tall in a layered line,

extending its scented

llmbs like a long walk

with the grace of a cat.

For now, it’s too short to climb.

His dainty cats

beneath the alpine tree

can walk,

their tails, a question mark, a fine line.

I’ll remember my brother as the years climb

to stretches unmarked by his scent.

Today, a gray line

of rain prevents us from taking our walk.

My brother’s furry cats,

their noses twitching with the scent

of dead trees

burning in the fire, dream of climbing.

The Alpine will grow to a tall and sinuous tree

Marking time in an infinite line,

even after the cats and I take our last walk.

Season of Goodbyes

The seasons, like life, shift from spring, to summer, to fall, to winter, marking the passage of time with tulips, green grass, dips in the lake, a blanket of leaves shaded in crimson, soon to be covered with the first snow, clean as angel wings. The cycle repeats, ad infinitum, but my body, bones crinkling and skin wrinkling, sits on the deck in my oak rocking chair, observing the passage of glory fading, too many friends succumbing to illness, and an aunt diagnosed with terminal cancer.

Death, I think, is just another season. And we fear it because we don’t understand it. We miss our loved ones that have crossed over, that have peered into death’s eyes and begun their new season. I miss our conversations, hugs, and laughter. I think that if I could collect my tears in a bucket, they would water my garden, and the lettuce would taste like salt. My mom says that my tears honor the dead, that they drink them from a golden cup, and realize how well they were loved.

My tears cascade down cheeks splotched with red. I look in the mirror and wonder who is staring at me. She smiles with my smile, and we laugh, reaching across the glass to embrace. She holds my memories, says she will cherish them and keep them safe. In this way, I rest assured that the goodbyes that push up my horizon, a veritable cliff of goodbyes, will not go unheeded. That my friends in their new season will live in my heart, that fall and winter, the seasons of goodbyes, will once again shift to spring and summer, and I will relish the scent of lavender and dip my toes into the cool waters of our glorious lake once again.

Psychic Landscape

His psychic landscape, a straight line

dips toward the past,

while mine, curvaceous,

twists and tangles, ad infinitum.

I say, “another mother lost a son.”

A deer, a motorcycle,

drinking and driving;

the mother and father bereft.

He says, “I had a great day at the range,”

and shows me two targets circled in red;

the dots, edged in black

feel like an arrow piercing my heart.

I follow my curves into the past

toward something (the car flipped ejecting him)

I want to forget ad infinitum

and sob into a handkerchief lined in lace.

He talks of paper cartridges and brass bullets

I picture the motorcycle.

A paper cartridge, a bullet

Aimed at the family’s heart.

Tis Golden

Tis golden
The spaces in between
Glitters and dances
Do you know what I mean?

If you follow that rainbow
Just over the dale
Turn left at the river
That goes on like a trail

Ignore gospel and gossip
Gather wild strawberries
Drop fertile frustrations
They’re too heavy to carry

Don’t stop for regrets
Or worry about old bills
Just keep on trudging
Up the rugged hill

Before you know it
An ocean you will hale
in an elegant boat
with a billowing white sail

the winds blow forever
like cool waters and warm sands
reach for infinity
with grateful hands

and in all your travels
that will surely lead you home
where the dog waits patiently
composing canine poems

the gold of your smile
the blue of your eyeslives on forever,
there are no goodbyes

Giving Back

My son, Nikolas Jesus Aguirre, died in a car accident caused by drinking and driving. Worst yet, he was the drunk driver; a seatbelt would have saved his life. But he had the malady of youth, the belief that he would live forever, and so, he died a tragic death that has changed my life forever.

Last week, an old friend came to visit. She had witnessed the birth of my son, and although we hadn’t seen each other for more than eight years, our connection was still strong. I explained to her that the missing still continued to burn a hole in my heart, but that I had many outlets for my grief that made life bearable.

When I told her about performing at drug court graduations, she got teary eyed, and told me about a father that had lost his daughter to cancer 20-years-ago. He had the opportunity to participate in the make a wish foundation to help another child struggling with cancer. Financially, he could help support this endeavor, but physically and mentally, he could not.

At the last drug court graduation, a friend of my son’s graduated from the program. He held his baby daughter in his arms, his face lit up like a thousand stars, his life unfolding in a positive direction, with infinite possibilities.

There was a time when I would have been angry, sad, and incapable of witnessing this event, because my son would never hold his child in his arms. I’m grateful that I can give back, and was able to see this other young man’s infant daughter, to give him a hug, and to tell him, I am so proud of you.

I miss you Niko, everyday.

Garden Grace

Every year, Nik’s memorial garden amazes and delights with an explosion of color. The daffodils begin the parade, announcing the return of summer, swiftly followed by the iris blossoms in an amazing array of purples, yellows, pinks, chocolates, light blues, and lavenders.

I’m not by nature a gardener, but am blessed with numerous gardening friends that bring new treats for me to plant. The garden seems to be blessed by angel wings, because everything grows in Nik’s garden (including the weeds).

Digging in the rich soil, pulling weeds, and caring for the memorial garden brings me a sense of balance and peace. In the garden, I feel as if I am surrounded by my son’s love. It’s a place where I can fight the demons of guilt, anger, and the pain of the missing, and embrace the happy memories and focus on light and laughter.

Soon, the berries will bare fruit, the lettuce will be ready for harvesting, and I will enjoy the produce of this special space created in memory of my son. I miss you, Niko, every day.