I See You Wherever I Go...

Time flows, one-directional, never stopping or stalling, except in my brain. The month of May carries the heavy burden of your death, balanced by the day of your birth, me stuck in an endless time loop, still hoping I will awake to find I have been living in an alternative reality, and you, my son, are tucked in your bed snoring softly, like the purr of a cat.

But reality settles in when I leave my lavender scented sheets. I live in a different house, your sister, engaged to be married, lives in Seattle, your faithful dog, Cholo, has joined you in heaven, along with your uncle Rex, and I have just returned from warm beaches in Cuba to the cold spring of Idaho, a mixed up mess of weather as turbulent as the grief that waits to sucker punch me in the eye.

I carry you with me wherever I go in a locket that settles near my heart. On my trip to Cuba, a met an 18-year-old man/child with your smile. He had olive skin and a crooked smile, and as he spoke English, he became our guide on our ride to the city of Holguin in a 52 Dodge station wagon loaded with 11 passengers and the driver. Like you, he was willing and eager to lend us some assistance, making sure we had the best seats and reached our final destination.

You are forever stuck, a day before your 18th birthday, while time continues to march for me, giving me new wrinkles, new gray hair, new aches and pains. I shed a tear for our new Cuban friend, a man/child about to serve his country for two years, his mother’s eyes gleaming, like mine. I miss you, Niko. Everywhere. Everyday.

Spring Dreaming

Winter holds, gripping the ground in white, dripping from gray skies—heavy with sorrow, longing for the birth of spring, the joyful return of the chickadees singing, “Hey Sweetie.” I look out my kitchen window; when the snow crashed off the roof, the inside critters would cower in corners, whimpering, “the sky is falling.” A calico cat sits on the roof berm, looking into the house, begging me to open the window and let her in.

I let my grief in, remembering my blue-eyed boy, the young man who would shovel my roof and rescue neighbors that slid off the road in front of our house on long winter days. I look into his eyes, mine brimming with tears, and say, “I miss you.” In my mind, we hug, and he catches my tears, reminding me that the snow, and my tears, are all a part of the circle we call life, and that the spring will come, that the flowers in his garden will bloom, that the lavender flowers will send their scent to butterflies and bees, and we will all sing and laugh, that my life will go on, that he will wait for me on the other side, that he does not need to forgive me for my transgressions, because love is all that matters.

I watch the snow fall like laser lights, bright drops of sunshine to be, and I thank my higher power for the gift of my son, for the time we shared, for the love and courage he continues to deliver, even when he is not here with me in this physical dimension. He tells me that he lives on in my heart, and so will always be with me.

I remember the bitter days following his death. How getting out of bed became a chore, a drudgery, a forced action bereft of reason. I remember finding the courage to continue and to become a better person—a better mother to my daughter, a better student of life, a better daughter, sister, and friend. These small measures give me solace. They were a direct reaction to Nik’s death, and so, in some small measure, gave his death meaning.

I set aside my grief and suit up, donning my green airman’s suit, my wool socks, heavy winter boots, furry warm coat, felt hat, and gloves, and slowly make my way through the ice, the seasonal creek, the patches of melting snow to the barn, to feed the horses. Spring will arrive in a flourish of green. The birds will sing, and we will dance in Nik’s garden.

My Brother's Cats Live from the kitchen

Gratitude List Live

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.