Memory of the Perfect Storm

Winter had arrived, covering the ground in white. The snowstorm hung on the trees, forcing the branches down. They dipped down like waterfalls, leaving the just enough space around the trunk of the trees which opened like wide yawns, dangerous holes ready to suck in unwary skiers and boarders. 

 At the top of the ski lift we disembarked, our helmeted heads topped with frost, our goggles glossy with ice, our gators covering our noses and lips. My hands, wrapped in thick black waterproof mittens, my fingers palming hand warmers that helped keep in the warmth. I stepped onto my board, glided to a stop, and attached my right foot to its harness, having mastered this trick without having to sit on the snow-laden ground. 

I ran with two skiers, and this day belonged to me and my board, that could carve through the as of yet untracked snow easier than my friends with not one, but two sticks attached to their feet. My brother looked at me and nodded, and my friend Monique pointed—we would go straight down headwall, one of my son’s favorite runs, dipping through the trees and cutting through the untarnished snow. 

The snow was thick, not too heavy, and half-way down, in unspoken agreement, we stopped at jumping rock, where once upon a time, my son Niko wowed us with his snowboard tricks, catching the sky in ecstasy and then, landing the jump and carving with a grace that astounded us all down the mountain. 

I had to take off one of my gloves, reached into my pocket for a handful of his ashes, and flung them off the rock. They caught the air as surely as Niko once had, flying as light as snow, the gray sand carried, carving down the mountain with a grace that defied gravity. 

I put my glove back on, and we turned, maneuvered around the rock, slow and steady, dipping back down to the ski lift, which lifted us once again up to the sky. 

I sit in my warm livingroom now, looking at the windows at the snow, the cat cuddled beside me purring. I can no longer snowboard--my knees can no longer take the abuse. But still, I remember those days of yore, snowboarding with my children, my son Niko always in the front, gracefully flying down a mountain of white. I miss you Niko.

Bleeding Heart

Bleeding Heart

Make room for me, the weeds demand.

Their roots, tangled, deep, like thoughts

That darken the horizon, like the clouds and the wind

Swooping.

A murder of crows commands,

and the red winged general sits

On the scarecrow’s hat, grinning.

He loved rocks, and his garden

Has rock walkways and rock beds to honor his memory.

The weeds conspire, twist in between gaps,

Claiming the black gold as their right.

In the morning, after the first cup of coffee,

After the walking of the dog,

After the gratitude list,

Shovel and hoe in hand,

I battle the weeds, pulling out layers

Inside and out.

Remembering his smile,

And the year we all made green tomato marmalade,

And the chutney he stirred, adding secret ingredients,

Pouring the mix into hot jars,

So we could savor the scent, the love,

The work done together, come winter.

The weeds demand my attention,

Force me into the garden,

Where the daffodils have

Trumpeted in the spring,

Where the strawberries get ready

To deliver the sweet tastes of summer,

And the flowers, lilacs, lilies, lavender,

Irises, peonies, a bleeding heart,

Fill my heart with joy.

Dear Lord

Dear Lord,

Someone told me there are no mistakes

That everything is part of your plan

I said that I couldn’t get behind that

On account of a child gone too soon

And wars and racism

And of course, the orange menace

Elected to the office of president.

What shall I do?

Should I hide under my covers

Shiver with despair?

Wonder at your supposed all knowing

All seeing eye.

I said I think the god, or the gods,

Or my personal preference, the goddess,

Gave us free choice.

That gravity and alcohol, not you, killed my son.

Because I could never forgive you for that.

Because he deserved a second change.

I remember that song, freedom is just

Another word for nothing left to lose,

And that’s what I felt when my son—

The car flipped ejecting him through the windshield—

Died. Like I had nothing left to lose.

But that’s when you came in

You became my shelter

My pillow, a soft cushion stuffed

With memory foam so I could

Sleep and dream of the before

The beginning of his end

At first I woke up screaming

A howl of rage, of pain, a wild thing

That scared my daughter

So I stuffed a rag drenched

With my tears in my mouth

An effort to save her ears

Dear Lord, the blessing, I suppose

Is that I can feel your presence

In my heart in the stillness of the morning

When I walk the dog to Herrmann pond

When I hear the geese honking their song

When the Blue Heron lifts his wings

In harmony to take flight

A graceful dance.

A forgiveness

A gift.

Dear lord,

Thank-you for that.

The Space Between

In a two dimensional image

Time stops as we jump into the river,

Walking on water,

As if we can’t quite commit to the chill

Our fingers laced forever

The sky frozen blue

I float between the dock

And the stream, center stage

My daughter hovers on my right

As close as a shadow

Our wide-open gibbous grins

make our dimples ebb and flow

My son, suspended on my left,

Extends beyond the gap

That grows between us

Like the distance that connects stars

While donning an eclipsed smile

In another family photo  

we stand beside the lake, dripping

My daughter, her hair highlighted in faded purple,

this time on my left

So close we look like a hug,

with no room for shadows

Our crescent lips reveal teeth

My son leans away on my right

He has stretched into thinness,

grown into his baby fat,

So proud to stand, at long last, taller than me

A far-reaching space separates us

Even as I attempt to pull him closer

His waning lips a thin line, a smirk

he lives in photographs

The space between us, big enough to swallow me whole

Like a full moon.

The car flipped ejecting him through the windshield.

A seatbelt would have saved him.

The Early Christmas Present

Just when I need it most, I feel like I am touched by angel wings that flutter about me like a soft caress. Yesterday, a young women I didn’t recognize approached me at an event, gave me a hug, and said, “Do you remember me? I came to your house after Niko died.”

She had matured, and her flaming hair flowed around her head like a halo. “Yes,” I said, tears in my eyes. “You came with two other girls, and helped my daughter and I select songs for Niko’s memorial CD.”

We talked about Niko, his generous nature, his magical laugh, his ability to draw friends together in a warm embrace, his untimely death. She smiled, bittersweet, when I asked her how she was doing. She was doing well, and coming to terms with the disease that killed my son, alcoholism. “I’m three months sober,” she said. “And this time, I’m going to make it.”

Our meeting felt like an early Christmas present, and we exchanged numbers and plan to keep in touch. For me, hearing my son’s name, and talking about what a gift he was in our lives, was the greatest gift for me, one I can re-open on those dark days when nothing makes sense, one I will hold in my heart and cherish.

Happy 2018

The new year comes in waves of white--fresh snow falls, covering the ground where you once walked in a million cold crystals. The holidays, the harborers of memories, fades beneath the white, as I dismantle the Christmas tree and wrap your ornaments and stow them safely in a box, breathing a sigh of relief, as I have once again survived the celebrations and the missing of You. Of course, I miss You everyday, but the holidays seem to hold more poignant memories, and everyone else goes along with the ho ho ho and the hallelujahs without a whisper of your name. Niko, I say out loud in my room, sitting at my desk, a picture of us as a family on summer holiday, our arms wrapped around each other, staring at me. I love You, I miss You, I hold You in my heart. Happy New Year.

Grief Can Be Sneaky

Grief can be sneaky. Just when I think I have it licked, I wake up with a tear streaked pillow, and the tape of my son’s death day looping through my brain. The first year the tape played more often, and I’d find myself clinging to the hope that it was all just a horrible nightmare. Now I know the hard truth, force myself out of bed, give myself permission to cry, and maybe add a little extra sugar and cream to my coffee, to sweeten the day.

Of course, the holidays tend to bring out the tape, as my brain travels back in time. Now, at least, I focus on positive memories, tactile and poignant, like the apron I gave my son one year for Christmas. He loved to cook, and we used to make the pumpkin pies together. So, every year I grow pumpkins in his memorial garden, and every Thanksgiving I wear his apron and turn the pumpkins into golden pies. 

The pies, made with love, touched with healing tears (just the right amount of salt), always taste delicious. They remind me of the time I had with my son, the laughter we shared, the joy he brought to my world. I hope your holidays are filled with joyful memories, that your pies are tasty with love, and that you allow yourself to shed salty tears that will help heal your heart.