thick

Thick and wet, the snow shed off the roof last night, blocking the front door. Yesterday, DaNae and I shoveled off the roof of our old house for the renter. I didn't charge her, adding it to the list of good deeds I've done for you. Remember how you and DaNae begged to shovel that roof, just so you could jump off? Until last year, when I had to beg you to help me. Remember how mad I got?

Today, I'll be shoveling and plowing, again. It's warm and safe inside, and Cholo curls beside me.

Why did you have to die your father's death, son? I tried so hard to save you. Cholo has been depressed. I think he figured his boy would come home for Christmas. I gave him two beef bones. He curls up with Pop the Penguin, the stuffed toy I sleep with.

We haven't been to the mountain, yet. I got DaNae a day pass and we plan on snowboarding next week after the holiday crowd disperses. It won't be the same without you.

Dear Nik

Dear Nik,

It's Christmas Eve and the snow falls out of the sky like candy, sweet and delicious, innocent and free. I got the plow stuck and you weren't here to dig me out. I raged, I cried, my tears sticking to my face like icicles. I put the chains on the back tires, and somehow managed to get myself out of the hole of snow.

We have a fireplace now and I think you would have enjoyed starting the fire, making flames always amused you. DaNae and I have gotten pretty good at it (we have too). She misses you terribly. You were like her dark twin, and you were always there for each other, in spite of the bickering and differences in personalities.

Cholo wants a boy for Christmas, but he's stuck with me. He drives with me in big blue, and your Aunt Jenny calls us DeCholo plow company. He sleeps on my bed at night. Remember how you would call him on the bed when I did my homework so you could sit with him, and me. I miss that. I miss your voice and your smile. I miss the thought of you growing up.

Tomorrow is Christmas and you are not here to cook breakfast, open presents, and prepare the auderves we would bring to Christmas dinner.

Schweitzer has opened and after the holidays I will bring some of your ashes to headwall. I promise to make that run every trip. Ryan is going to bring some of you up to your favorite spot, a place to hellacious for me to even think of attempting.

When I die and go to heaven, I'll be in good company. When I die and go to heaven, I hope that you will wait for me.

Implied Illusion

Two Long necked
Canada geese
A floating reflection,
An implied illusion
A murky morning
Water like glass
Two wishes
Floating free
Arms spreading their seed
In wild ecstacy.

Two long necked
Canada geese
Floating in an implied illusion
A reflection
Refraction
Split second of the
Lens
Turned upside down
In an easy assignment
Off center

This implied illusion
A reflection of the glass
Off center
Crooked nose, split between the panes
Frozen shut
And the wind
Has a life of its own
A raging rascal
A scoundrel
Scorning everything in its
Bitter path

The past is a murky morning
With two long neck Canada geese
Floating in the reflection
Of implied illusion.

Flipped off center
What is real?
What if the car didn’t split the tree asunder
What if he still slept in his messy room?
Cuddled to warm furry Cholo
The two of them like brothers
Off center
An implied illusion.

Christmas tree, 2006

The Ornaments

I wrote this several years ago. Its about Christmas and teenagers.

My seventeen-year-old daughter, DaNae, and I got our Christmas tree this weekend. I tortured myself in the dungeons of Wal-Mart buying eggnog, Tylenol, and a shopping cart full of things not on my list. The checkout stands from hell loomed before me. I picked the most hellacious line. Mrs. Bigfoot, a dumpling of a woman, had three carts with $400 worth of crap. Weighted down with shortcomings, such as lack of patience, I abandoned my cart behind her, and traipsed through bathrobes and books. By the time I checked out ($120) I had consumed a power drink, two Claussen pickles, and three mints.


When I got home, DaNae and her friend Shawn had already dragged a reluctant tree into the living room and manhandled it into the stand. Shawn went home, and DaNae and I retrieved the three boxes of Christmas goodies we stash at the tip-top of our pantry cabinets. Out of the boxes came the snowmen, nutcrackers, singing Santa clauses, a cow that moos merry Christmas, stuffed bears the size of pillows, angels, a funny little elf, old ribbons, and ornaments for the tree. One chocolate truffle, my son Nik’s, which he didn’t eat last year because we fought over the tree and he decided to hate the holiday, sat lonely in its box.

Our reluctant teenage tree, tall and rowdy, rebelled against us. Perhaps its mother hadn’t explained the greatest thing a tree could grow up to be was a Christmas tree. Maybe it wanted to wear the green, red, and yellow jalapeno lights that we decided to put in the kitchen windows. Whatever the cause, it waxed, waned, and fell on us with a crash of glass. Three ornaments died.

I held it in check as DaNae dashed off the ornaments. Together we lay it on its side and with a hammer spanked its bottom to the pain in the ass tree stand we argue with every year. We twisted screws, longed for glue or duck tape, even string to hang it with.

We leaned it slightly (I’m sure no one will notice) into the window and redecorated it. Our collection of ornaments grows every year, and each one evokes delicate memories of yesterdays. Nik used to move his little train along the strands of lights, and DaNae loved to play with the icicle man. It’s still her favorite. And together they’d work out their grief over their dad’s death by playing with nutcrackers turned into dolls, saying, sister, dad has died but we have grandma and grampa now. Or brother, let’s go to the North Pole and visit dad. He’s an angel.

When I came home this afternoon, the snowmen had moved to the windowsill of their own volition, looking longingly out as if they waited for their siblings to fall from the sky and whiten the outside trees. The stuffed bears jumped on the couch as if it were a trampoline, while the snowboard snowmen did flips and kickers off the piano. The icicle man slipped and slided down branches on the tree, shouting, “Wee, this is fun,” and the train buzzed along the lights with a chug-a-lug and a toot of its horn. The funny little elf danced a jig by an empty bottle of sparkling cider.

The littlest nutcrackers skirmished on the rug. The fisher-cracker with his red hat and long pole sat next to the aquarium. Two fish have gone missing. The king with his crown and red cape stood by the snow queen with the light up crown. The drummer drummed next to the pied piper, and the singing Santa bellowed out “Come they told me parumpapumpum” in harmony with the cow. The red and the green swordsmen parried on the coffee table, with an “On guard nut” and “Take that you cracker.” The Mexican nutcracker sang feliz navida, off key, to an angel hanging on the tree. She glanced glass smiles at him, crystal laughs sparkling out her mouth. The football player jumped and jumped for the 49er football hanging on a middle branch shouting, “Why can’t I be a black nutcracker like Jerry Rice so I can catch the football and take it over the top of the tree for a touchdown.”

The oldest nutcracker, he has a missing arm and broken jaw, stood his post by the door. An empty chocolate truffle box lay beside him. Chocolate smeared his red lips.

Dear Parent

Dear Parent,

I tried to save my son, Niko, from alcoholism/addiction. In this day and age, that’s nearly impossible, especially when he came home and said, “So and so let’s us drink and smoke pot at their house, what’s wrong with you, Mom.”

My parents let us party at their house. They thought they could keep us safe. We told them we did it only on special occasions. What we didn’t tell them was that waking up constituted a celebration. They basically gave us their permission to do whatever we wanted, whenever and wherever we wanted.

Niko, my beautiful, intelligent, generous and kind son had everything to live for. But because some adults think it’s ok to let children party at their houses, he was able to obtain alcohol. And it killed him.

I go to bed crying, I wake up sobbing, and I think about him all the time. Worse yet, I have a recurring nightmare. Some boy goes to a “cool” parents house, drinks alcohol, gets in his car, drives down the road, and hits my daughter, killing her.

Sandpoint lost two wonderful young men this year to alcohol. I have signed a pledge stating that I will stand for teenagers excellence and serve them snacks, juice, and soda pop at my house, and that I will not allow them to drink or drug on my premises. I urge parents everywhere to take a proactive stance, to be positive parental role models and to join me in this pledge.

Sincerely,

Desire` Aguirre

DaNae and Nik

The Day After

Thanksgiving strutted in, spreading her feathers like wings, covering us with a light dusting of snow. We toasted Nik at the dinner table, our crystal glasses filled with sparkling cider, our eyes covered with a light dusting of tears.

DaNae couldn’t face the holiday or make her special fondue. Nik and DaNae always prepared something for the feast, fighting over space in the kitchen. Nik said his concoction was the best, and he would make a bowl of shrimp seviche, marinading the shrimp over night in lime juice and Tapatio sauce.

The day after Thanksgiving we’d meet at the Safeway in Sandpoint and car pool to Coeur d’Alene for a day of shopping, parading, more feeding at a buffet, and the firework/lights display. On the way home, we’d listen to Christmas music, Peter Paul and Mary, Bing Crosby, John Lennon, and all the rock Christmas classics.

The day after hit me the hardest. I kept myself busy painting the guest room, washing and patching, sanding, and covering the ugly wall-paper with clean white paint. I worked until well past my bedtime, my tears watering down the paint.

Ryan, Nik’s best friend, stopped by last night on his way back to Moscow. I wasn’t sure he’d make it, and part of me was glad. When he arrived, he hugged me tight, his dandelion head a good foot above me. I cried, showing him the stones Michelle had painted and the memorial block Monique had made. His hugs filled me with Nik’s love. He started to leave, turned, and gave me one more hug.

I finished painting the room, working well past my bedtime.

the dress rehearsal

My husband, Bob, died 15 years ago. After ten years of sobriety, he drank. He struggled for nine months, sporadically maintaining bits and pieces of clarity. In the end, he gave birth to death-he crossed the line too many times and couldn’t stop drinking.
The car hit the railing, took flight, and flipped numerous times, ejecting him through the windshield. He had extensive injuries to his head, lower abdomen, and legs. Beer cans littered the scene, and he had a blood alcohol content of .23%.
He died Sunday, May 2, 1993, at five in the morning. On our eighth wedding anniversary. The day after our daughter DaNae’s fifth birthday and a week before Nik’s third. The day of the big doubleheader birthday party, which we had anyway. The ice cream churned and the cake decorated, the bread had been baked and the cheese finely grated. Wrapped presents sat on the table, and a pin the tail on the donkey poster covered the door. My mom drove from Idaho for the birthday party. She helped keep me together. She called the neighbors, the employers, and the relatives.
“Stop crying,” DaNae said. And “When will Daddy get home?”
“Honey, Daddy died, and he’s in heaven watching.”
“See my new bike?” she’d ask twenty minutes later. “Will Daddy put the training wheels on? Look, Nik likes his red tricycle.”
The piñata hung from the patio. Ten-year-old Ben swung the bat with a knickety-knack, then off came its head with whickety-whack. Candy and coins fell from the tufts of fluff remaining on the body that swayed like a dead man on a noose. Dead dead dead echoed in my head, and no one used the camera to take photographs of the elated children and devastated adults.
It felt like my right hand had been hacked off with a dull axe. I repaired copiers for Pitney Bowes and I never told a single customer what had occurred. I didn’t understand the process of bereavement, and one month after Bob’s death I went to my family physician, who prescribed antidepressants. A year later, I had a nervous breakdown and couldn’t return to work. Two years later, I moved to Idaho so that my mom could help me with the kids.
Bob’s death was a morbid dress rehearsal for Nikolas. This time, I have a grasp of what the grief process entails. I understand the importance of sharing my experience. When Nikolas died, I felt like someone had cut a hole in my heart with a rusty razor blade. I wanted to shout from the rooftops that my beautiful son had died. At the same time, I cowered in the aisles at grocery stores when I saw somebody I knew, afraid to confront them and make them cry. Worst yet, I noticed people avoided me, as if my presence made them uncomfortable.
I wrote letters to Oprah, trying to find a grand finale, a way to spread the message, don’t drink and drive and wear your seatbelt, but she sent me a form letter reply. I ranted and raved, screamed and yelled, made a video, joined a community action group, became a student ambassador, trying to find meaning in my son’s death. The best thing I’ve done, is everyday, I do one good deed and ad it to Nik’s life. That way, I can honestly say, I have become a better person because of his death.

The Night

The night belongs to the stars,
that wink and wobble
brightening your short existence.

Did they see your car careening down the road?
Did they watch it roll and flip,
splitting the tree asunder,
ejecting you out the windshield?

You lay half underneath
the car I bought you for graduation while
the tree covered your existence.

You died alone.
Did the stars take your hand,
and guide you to heaven?

I found a note in your writing.
It said, “Am I dead?”
The stars said yes.

The night belongs to Nik
who graces the sky like a king,
who walked too short on this ground.

The night so gay and triumphant.
The world so bright and cheerful.
The air so bitter cold.
The day so long and sorrowful.

We are all our own universe.
We all go back to cosmic dust.
We all walk the sky like stars.

Nik's Pumpkin Pie

By Rhoda Sanford

We gardened that year, after their father died. Their little dimpled hands and knees were black with mud, and wide grins stretched across their dirt streaked faces as we planted seeds and watered.
Nik said, “Sister, don’t you think we need a scarecrow?”
“Oh, yes, Brother,” DaNae piped up. “We do.”
So we made a scarecrow to scatter the birds and moles and creepy critters that ate his corn and DaNae’s carrots. They crayoned a face on an old pillow; DaNae drew eyes with precision, Nik colored a scary mouth with abandon. Grandpa gave up an old shirt that we stuffed with rags, and I contributed a raggedy pair of old jeans that flapped in the wind. Nik said it needed a hat, so Grandpa rummaged one from the back of his closet. Their scarecrow stood guard that summer as the veggies grew.
DaNae was delighted with her sweet carrots, and Nik was so proud of the corn stalks growing so much bigger than he was. But their chief delight was the pumpkins. We had enough to carve into jack-o-lanterns to bring home, and enough to make pies.
The children carefully measured the flour and sugar and salt for me, spilling a little (ok, quite a bit) of everything onto the countertop, the floor and themselves. Nik discovered that he could make a pile of sugar in front of him, then dip his fingers into it, making finger lollipops for him to lick. It was a trick they both continued to use when we baked cookies and cakes. Then DaNae put the pieces of cooked pumpkin into the blender, I set it on puree, and Nik turned it on.
Breaking the eggs into the pumpkin filling was their greatest pleasure. Nik, by the time he was 16, could break an egg with one hand, never harming the yolk, and never getting shells into the filling. He loved to cook.
Nik and his Uncle Rex vied in Desire’s kitchen, making up marinades for elk jerky, adding red peppers, garlic, this and that from the cupboards, Nik certain his was best.
“Isn’t it, Grandpa? Isn’t my jerky the best?”
When company came, he was up early in the morning, making Blueberry Pancakes from scratch, serving them with a flourish and a big smile.
He was his Father’s son, born with black curly hair and Bobby’s hands. But he had his Mother’s clear blue eyes. Oh, he was good to look at. He was intelligent, inquisitive, and delightful. He also thought he should be King of the Hill, and he had a good set of lungs to prove it. When he was three, Nik declared in roars that he was Alpha Dog.
Of course, a three year old can’t be allowed to rule the roost. I quickly established myself as Alpha Bitch. We got along well, Alpha to Alpha.
Grandpa and I took them to Death Valley, one of my favorite places. Nik wanted to see the kilns, high on the mountaintop, but the snow was too deep even for Grandpa’s Dodge Ram 4 wheel truck, which was in danger of getting mired down for the rest of winter. Nik conceded that we tried, and he bought his Grandpa a souvenir rock. He didn’t have enough money to buy himself a souvenir.
His most endearing quality was generosity. Christmas, to him, was a time for Giving, and he gladly spent his savings in the Dollar Store we visited each Friday-After-Thanksgiving- in Coeur d’Alene. Every year he donated a month’s allowance to the Lion’s Club Toys for Tots, not letting them use his name.
I loved the fact that the kids enjoyed that first Pumpkin Pie so much that they couldn’t eat a store bought one. I’ve grown pumpkins ever since for DaNae and Nik. Just so they’ll have real pumpkin pies, the kind you can’t buy, the kind that’s grown with love, and baked with love, and packed so full of love it can’t be contained.
Nik baked one for Charlene and Miguel and the rest of his beloved San Pedro relatives. It was Thanksgiving, and there were no pumpkins left in the grocery, so he resorted to canned pumpkin from the shelves, sure it couldn’t be as good.
But I’m told it was, it was delicious. Their mouths filled with goodness and sweetness, and they savored his love in every bite.

The Old Barn

I can’t find my cell phone or write. Nothing makes sense. Nik had blue eyes and olive colored skin and thick black hair. John Gardner says not to write about what you know, but Nik slips into my thoughts with practiced ease. I can’t get him out of my head.
A seatbelt would have saved him, and I wonder why he didn’t buckle up. His arrogance swallowed him as surely as the alcohol he consumed. I can’t seem to write fiction when the nonfiction consumes all my words.
My old barn has wrinkled white walls and faded blue trim. The horse ate all the hay this year, and I had to scrape the bottom layer, trying to feed any available debris to the beast.
She’s not really a beast. I am. If I could do it over, I would. I’d take his keys away and ground him for a month. I wouldn’t let him out of my sight. I’d hug him and kiss him and tell him I loved him. I’d drag him to AA meetings and guard him and protect him. I’d sell the car I gave him for his graduation present. I’d send him back to California. I’d take his anger and hatred if only he would live.
I prayed for a boy because I knew my husband, 25 years my senior, would die before me. I wanted to have his carbon copy. How ironic that they would die the same death, 15 years, 6 days and 2 hours apart. The cars flipped over ejecting them through the windshields. Nik, I am told, was killed instantly. His car crushed him. Bob lived for a few hours. It cost $5,000 for him to die.
The old barn has a fresh scar from when I tried to back the trailer into it. My daughter said, “Mom, you shouldn’t try backing things up when you’re upset.” I gave up trying to put it in the barn. Besides, the barn now houses the old doors, riddled with holes, from Nik’s room, his waterbed, desk, a broken wheelbarrow, extension chord, empty bag of feed, a pile of hay baling string, the snow thrower that refuses to start in the winter but always fires up in the summer, the lawn mower that Nik used to cut the grass with.
Every night I wonder if tomorrow will be the day I don’t have to cry. But whenever I think that, the tears spring leaks in my eyes, dripping down my weathered cheeks and into my mouth. Worse yet, my snuff stained nose begins to drip brown snot. I can’t help myself. It’s as if I’m trying to stuff my loss with whatever I can to fill the leak.
People tell me I’m a warrior, courageous and brave. I feel like a warrior with the necklace I had made with my son’s ashes on a chain around my neck my armor. I will not stuff Nik out of mind, out of site, or out of memory. I will confront my grief and face it. I will talk about it and about him. I have to make it count for something. Does that make sense?
I can’t help it. When Bob died, I got a week off from work, and then was expected to perform as if nothing had happened. I never told one single customer what had happened. Because I didn’t know a dam thing about death, I didn’t write an obit for him. It was easier, or so I thought, not to let anyone know. It amazed me how no one could tell I was walking around like a ghost.

Niko and Cholo

A Faded Tragedy

One of my son's friends wrote this for Nik.

These moments noticed by all
Eventually redone by some
Faded in each a heart
These days lost in time
For as soon as remember soon forgot

A young group waking to a new morning
The promised day at hand
Their youth almost gone so soon
The next step just moments away
Almost two decades given up
A great time for all in mind
time to live life so full

These moments noticed by every one
Eventually redone by a few
Faded in each a spirit
These moments lost in an instance
For as soon as remember soon overlooked

The evening coming so fast
The party begins at last
Laughter to each a friend they give
Drinking tell hearts are glad and mad
Choices given with regard or thought
Invisible each feels at last
The future coming up fast

These moments noticed by the whole
Eventually redone by a number
Faded quickly without a sign
These moments lost in a moment
For as soon as remember soon disregarded

The engine starts off that night
The moon shines as they take off
The wind caught within their hair
Smiles on all their faces
Joy filled within each mind
A single second caught in time
For in a moment they shall be all but gone

These moments noticed by none at all
Eventually redone by all
Faded quickly in each a feeling
These moments lost in days
For as soon as remember soon fail to be remembered

A tire streak is heard loudly
Their body thrown about so quickly
A metal cage breaks their bones
As their eyes grow dark
So many tears are bleeding
Crying out in lost cause
For now their time is all but up

These moments noticed not a bit
Eventually redone by several
Faded quickly in each a sympathy
These moments lost in life
For as soon as remember soon let go

Young blood has been shed
Their dreams all but broken and dead
Their future torn asunder
Forever scared shall be their friends
Fathers and mothers grief stricken without end
For the kids hearts pound no more
Breathless are the children of god

These moments noticed no one
Eventually redone by every one
Faded quickly in each a will
These moments lost within
For as soon as remember soon neglected

Their tragedy here right now
The mourners repent their sins
Telling others not to make such choice
Remember the moment many shall
But mockers will come as always
They will laugh each time
Such a thing won’t be mine

These moments noticed by nobody
Eventually redone by all
Faded quickly in each a time
These moments lost in the mind
For as soon as remember not at all

by Nic Anderson

the sign

Open Sky

It almost scares me,
this open sky over the ocean.
Like a stairway to heaven,
a tunnel to paradise, a blip on my horizon.

That’s what this feels like. A blip,
as you skip your way out of my life,
over and beyond anything I ever anticipated
for you, my only son.

It almost scares me,
this opening in my heart,
translucent and throbbing,
for everyone to see.
I walk in circles, going about my daily routine
like a robot, a has-been,
a has not, rather.

It almost scares me,
this wretched time on my hands,
of never seeing you again,
of never hearing your voice or
touching your thick hair,
of never smelling the scent of old spice
on your freshly shaven chin.

It never ceases to amaze me,
how I can keep going on
even though you are not at all.

It almost scares me
when I forget to think about you
when I don’t sob myself to sleep.
The thought of you forever 17,
never to be the Uncle of your
sister’s future children,
her an only child now, the
possessor of all I will leave behind,
the one who lived.

It almost scares me,
this open sky over the ocean.

For Nik

The Green King

The grass reminds me of Nik. So many shades grow at different lengths in different directions. And he is not here to grudgingly mow the lawn. When will these growths of grief get cut?
Nik was arrested a week before his 14th birthday for breaking into a car and stealing a cell phone. A police officer came to our house looking for him. He asked me if I thought my son would do such a thing. I said I didn’t think so. He asked me if Nik would tell the truth. I said he would not. I didn’t hire a lawyer. I wanted him to face the consequences of his actions. In fact, I liked the idea of him being on probation. It would give me support and backup. He’d have someone else to answer to.
Nik went to a counseling group, and I attended a parenting class. He made new friends and learned how to play poker. I received a book with systematic instructions on how to set, and maintain, boundaries. In eleven months, he passed his probation and entered the ninth grade a free teenager. He continued smoking pot, but, of course, lied about it. His attitude went down the toilet along with his grades.
I failed my class. Confronting Nik was like stepping in front of a wild moose protecting her baby. To live in denial maintained the peace. Asking questions would break our delicate truce. It would require action.
I clung to my images of him as a young boy. A fabulous cook, he liked experimenting with food and loved to serve me breakfast in bed. Science intrigued him, and his teachers wanted him to join a group of student ambassadors going to Australia. He snowboarded like a god and played goalie on a soccer team. He picked wildflowers, and grinning, made me pick which hand he held them in behind his back.
The pipe that fell out of his pocket and the empty beer cans in the trash demanded attention. He dared me to call the cops. I did, handed them his pipe and watched them take him off in a police car. I went to court, sat and cried when they brought him in, manacled and cuffed hands to feet, in white and bright orange stripes.
His arrogance, disrespect and anger swallowed him and almost devoured me. We fought and fought until I couldn’t fight anymore. I told him he had an option. He could move. It was a surrender of sorts. I was weak, tired and couldn’t stand the thought of coming home to him, stoned or un-stoned, a dirty pipe, an open container. Not my bright-eyed boy with the laughing eyes and lush hair so black and curly.
It would have felt different if I had shipped him on his way to college, green behind the ears but going somewhere. He lived in San Pedro for over a year with his beloved cousins and aunt, and after he graduated from the Job Corps, he came back home to Idaho.
Does he miss the emerald grass on this side of heaven? Now, can he smell the difference between the sweet air of heaven and the blue green air of Idaho? Is there a bridge for him to jump off, a creek he can ride his bike to, a fresh water lake with perch and rainbow trout?
Nik graduated from the Job Corps in February 2007 in Long Beach, Calif. He returned to work at the Samuels Store and at Schweitzer Mountain resort. A north Sandpoint kid growing up, he attended Northside Elementary, the Sandpoint Charter School and Sandpoint High. He had a sharp wit, strong personality and was a true friend.
When Nik was 8 he said, “Christmas was the time for giving,” and he’d save his allowance so he could buy everyone gifts. He loved to swim, fish, snowboard, bike ride and play hackeysack with friends. An incredible bass player, he sometimes practiced a song until his fingers bled to get it right.
I want my boy to come home. He died May 8, 2008. He would have turned 18 May 9, but the car flipped over and ejected him out of our lives. He did not survive. I went to the mortuary to view his body. I admit it; I wanted it to be somebody else’s son. I did not want to have to kiss my green king goodbye. But I did. He looked like an angel, but he was cold. The room felt empty. And I feel empty without him.
They told me he died instantly, and I cling to that. But he was alone and he was drunk and/or stoned. I want his death to serve some higher purpose so that his sister, DaNae Aguirre of Sandpoint, and his cousins, Charlene and Miguel Castellon of San Pedro, Lisa and Mark of San Pedro, Amin and Jason Kees of Utah, Aunt Jenny Lopresto and Uncle Rex Mayo of Sandpoint, Aunt Irene (Nana) and cousin George of San Pedro, Aunt Sylvia and cousin Eric of Priest River, Aunt Rae and cousin Scott Sanford of California, Grandparents Rhoda and Dell Sanford of Laclede, Grandparents Fran and Ron Peterson of San Jose, best friends Ryan Ford and Josef Schabell of Sandpoint, his faithful dog Cholo, family and friends from Peru to California to Canada, and me, his mom, can go on living without him.
A memorial to celebrate Nik’s life will be held at Lakeview Funeral Home (www.lakeviewfuneral.com) 1 p.m. Saturday, May 17. Everyone is invited. Please come to share your memories of Niko.
Please don’t drink and drive or let your friends drink and drive, and for Nik’s sake, buckle up.