Merry Ho Ho Ho

The Christmas tree isn’t decorated this year, a first since your death, as I have two kittens in the house that would have loved to destroy every ornament and every decoration. They remind me of you—one minute sweet and cuddly, and the next, little demons stirring up some kind of trouble—and then charming their way out of their mess with kitten purrs, in stereo. Of course, you didn’t purr; you smiled and laughed and hugged and joked. You charmed and captivated.

Even without a decorated tree, the holidays descend as surely as the snow that has covered the ground, the deck, the roofs and the roads. With every shovelful, I think of you, and remember that eventually, you would grab shovel or roof rake and help clear snow. I remember you helping neighbors out of ditches, and I remember you did it with a smile on your face.

If you had lived, you would be 25ish, and you wouldn’t be living at home, but I like to pretend that you live close by, and you drop in and grab a shovel or rake and the snow disappears in your path like magic. You’d have a child, my grandson or granddaughter, and they call me granny, and they dance to my music and sit in my lap.

Instead, I have two kittens and a sore shoulder and no Christmas tree. I have tears that fall as fast as the snow outside my windows, and a heart that will never be quite whole. I have learned that I can survive without you, and my life is graced with music, friends, family, kittens, snow, and love. And that everything I have to say grace over today is a result of surviving your death, and one kitten pounce at a time, learning to live without you.

At first, I thought there had to be a grand scheme, as I searched for meaning in your passing. I have come to accept that you died in a car accident, that alcohol and gravity killed you, and that ultimately, it was an accident that scratched you out of my life. But I have also come to believe that I can honor your life, and find some solace in random acts of kindness and courage, and this has made me a better person. And that just makes me love, and miss, you more.

Merry Christmas, Niko. I miss you everyday.

Chollo the Dog

When Nik was around ten years old, he began begging me to let him have a dog. His media campaign included a list of the advantages of having a dog, and how Nik would be responsible for all the dogs needs. I hemmed, I hawed, and finally, I caved in.

Nik saved his allowance, and when he had enough money to adopt a dog, I took him to the Panhandle Animal Shelter. I hoped for an older dog, a pet that was mature and less likely to destroy the new carpet. Nik had other ideas, and when he saw the mixed-up-lab puppies, he fell in love with the biggest one.

We took the puppy home with us after Nik signed a contract, and received instructions on how to care for his new pet. The puppy came with a 10-day warranty, and I remember every day that puppy would get into some kind of mischief, and Nik would declare, “I’m taking him back.” But the puppy, now named Chollo, had other ideas, and Chollo would always win his way back into Nik’s heart.

Nik paid for Chollo’s dog food, went with him to the Vet to get his shots and have him fixed, took him on walks, and loved him whole heartedly. They were inseparable, and when Chollo ate a hole in my new carpet, destroyed some furniture, or puked on the floor, Nik did his best to clean up the mess and make financial amends.

When Nik died in a car accident, I took Chollo to the site, and Chollo showed me where our boy had died (the police report that I later received confirmed Chollo’s findings). Chollo mourned the death of his boy. We both moped around the house, going into Nik’s empty room and howling out our grief.

Chollo loved to go horseback riding with me, but after Nik died, he started lunging for the horse’s neck whenever I tried to mount. It was as if he was afraid of loosing me, too. Chollo’s horseback riding days were over, and I had to buy him a kennel to keep him from eating through doors, blinds, and screens to get to me.

But through everything, Chollo was there for me—my strongest connection to Nik. But dogs age faster than their humans, and as Chollo grayed, I worried about the final cutting of the strings that bound me to Nik’s memories.

John the horseshoer advised me to get another dog, because a new dog would bring life back to Chollo, and be there for me when Chollo died. The next day I adopted Little Girl from the Panhandle Animal Shelter. Chollo mentored her, and for the next two years, he had a revised spirit, more vigor, and more life.

Chollo, 14, got cancer, and we did the best we could. Toward the end, I prayed and asked Nik to take Chollo home, because I wasn’t sure I could make the decision to have him put to sleep. One morning, the number of my horse vet literally fell into my lap, and I knew that it was time to make the call.

The vet came out with an assistant, and Chollo died with dignity and grace in our livingroom, surrounded by his cats, his little sister, and me. He simply went to sleep, his heart still filled with love, but his body completely wore out. Much to my surprise, I had a head rush of gratitude, to be a part of his passing, to ensure that he went on his way gracefully.

We buried him in Nik’s garden, with four paws worth of Nik’s ashes. Today, snow, falling like angel wings, covers his grave. I see Chollo running, unhampered by cancer, beside his boy, wild and free.

Well Dressed Boy

He didn’t like cotton, polyester, or wool

He had no need of pants, or shoes, or shirt,

for he relished the feel

of air on skin.

He did, however, love

The cowboy boots that kind of fit him

.

Early he would rise, and much to my surprise,

He’d shove boots over sockless toes

And disappear from site

Didn’t matter if they were on the wrong feet

Cuz he left the house knowing he was

a well dressed boy

I think, perhaps, he had a floppy old hat,

which he placed squarely on his head,

before making his plan of attack

and down the dusty trail he then would stride,

across the road, to play with Toad,

another well-dressed boy.

I don’t remember what shoes he wore

when his car flipped and

spit him through the shield.

I’d rather focus on those well-worn boots

And frumpy old hat that made him feel

like a well dressed boy

And how when he was older

He liked donning silk shirts and slacks

Cuz he was becoming a well-dressed man

Yes, I like to remember him

Laughing and free, strutting across the road

a well dressed  boy.

The hard silence…the not talking

Hard silences

Like a rock

Split in two

Ages ago

Before you

After you

The not talking

Or mentioning

Your name

Weighed heavy

Like a rock

On my heart

Crushing it

As if

It were gravel

Hallow Eve

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The wings of time

Fly by

In spite of grief

And a pocketful

Of worries

Better left unopened

The seasons flutter

Like butterfly wings

And crisp autumn leaves

Announce the arrival

Of fall, and holidays

Fragile as ice

Temperatures fluctuate

A roller coaster ride

Once thrilling

As children bundled

And decorated

Held out hands for candy

And you,

My blue-eyed son

A fireman, a pumpkin

A rock star, a monster

Pranced and pranked

My hearts delight

Then disappeared

Beyond my horizon

A ghost, a star, an angel?

I lick chocolate from lips

Turned down,

like an umbrella.

Gratitude

There was a time when I would been capable of making a gratitude list, but time has healed my rough edges, and granted me a new perspective on life.

 

Thank you for the morning light

grass of green 
a horses delight

thank you for the birds melody

catching the wind gracefully.

Field of daisies looks like snow 
irises emitting a glow

turkeys in the field

turtles in their shell

jack rabbits on the trail.

Thank-you for song and poems

gatherings of like-minded souls
cool evening breeze

berries on the vine

water as sweet as wine.

Little Rosie dogs that don’t bark

cairns of elegant rocks

colors ever bright

food with a bite

the whisper of a moon.

Thank-you for my collection of hats
warm and fuzzy kitty-cats
fiddles that can sing
banjoes with a ring
a boyfrined to change the strings.

Lavender blossoms pungent and sweet
getting a good night's sleep
kites that can fly
Mom's berry pie
a gold sunrise.

Painted horses strong and sure

dancing children around the hearth

love and laughter

tears and rain

Thank-you for surcease of pain.

For Niko

Nikolas Jesus Aguirre (May 9, 1990-May 8, 2008), my blue-eyed son, had strength of character and courage—not enough to defy gravity—but enough to wow his family and friends. His death left a gaping dark hole in our lives. Attempting to find meaning in his death, I stumbled upon the mandolin, and the healing power of music. I decided to carry on Nik’s legacy by pretending I had his courage; I was able to learn how to play the mandolin, banjo, fiddle, guitar, uke, bones, bodhran, mountain dulcimer and hammer dulcimer. Eventually, I started writing songs, which has helped me trudge through the perilous path of grief. Blue Wings is about that journey. I miss you Niko. Everyday.

Wedding Bells

I remember DaNae twirling in the grass, her eyes shimmering a blue green, fluctuating between sky and ground. I remember our smidget midget—3-pounds 14 ounces—a baby so small that her dad, Bobby Jesus, drove all the way to Tacoma to buy her doll clothes because nothing else would fit.

Her birthday, May Day, is tainted with blood, as Bobby died in a car accident on May 2, a day after her fifth birthday, and her beautiful blue eyed brother, Nikolas Jesus, followed his father’s automobile tracks and died on May 8, a day before his 18^th birthday.

After Nik died, well meaning friends would approach DaNae and ask her how I was, effectively placing DaNae in a no-win situation. It didn’t seem to dawn on them that DaNae had lost her only sibling, her baby brother, the child she had spent her entire life with. DaNae and Nik played soccer, had classes, and didn’t practice the piano together; they challenged each other, fought each other, and loved each other. They were shadows. The well-meaning friends didn’t recognize that DaNae was in terrible pain, confusion, denial, guilt, and of course, suffering from thoughts of “why him and not me?”

DaNae felt like she had no one to communicate with, that she had become the lost child, the sibling without a sibling, an only child through unfortunate and ugly circumstance. After the first couple of weeks, I was able to see through my heavy coat of grief, and was able to reach out to her, and together, we walked across the precarious bridge, searching for a new life, a life that didn’t include Nik.

But DaNae, a young lady that likes gloomy days and would never say, “Sunshine, anyone?” is tired of singing the blues, even if they’re accompanied by a uke. She lifted her anchors of grief, and stepped into freedom and proposed (drum roll) to Ryan, a fine young man that treats DaNae like a king, on her birthday. Ryans intelligent, so of course he said yes.

DaNae always dreamed that Nik would one day walk her down the aisle and give her away. She has adjusted her vision, and decided that she will walk down the aisle by herself. I think differently. I see two angels, her father and her brother, leading her down that aisle.

Travel Courage

I’m not much of a traveler. I get hit with fear; it feels like a sledgehammer pounding out the creases in my forehead. I worry about loosing my passport, catching the flu from germs on the plane, making a fool out of myself in a foreign country and ending up in jail. The list, ridiculously long, goes on forever.

Both my children, well versed in travel, did not inherit my traveling jean. In fact, my daughter spent her senior year as an exchange student in Thailand, and both kids spent time in Mexico and California with relatives.

Nik, my son, had a courage that astounded and delighted. After he died, I decided to act more courageously in his honor. So when four girl friends invited me on a 2.5-week trip to the Mexican Caribbean, I stuffed all my fears in a vintage suitcase, and placed it on the top shelf of my closet, where I can’t possibly reach it.

We swam with the turtles, fished, and ate ceviche, tamales, and fresh corn tortillas. We walked along the creamy sand that stretched across our horizon, mingled with the tourists and the locals, snorkeled, and danced in the waves.

Thank-you, Nik, for lending me your strength and your courage; I miss you everyday.

Strands of Green

Strands of green grass break through brown ground, answering the call of blue skies tinged with yellow. The geese and ducks have returned to Herrmann Pond, looking for nesting sites. An early spring has arrived, and I breathe deep, exhale slowly, and wipe the tears cascading down my cheeks. The renewal of life, crisp and bright, juxtaposed against your untimely death, and the missing in my heart that sometimes explodes like a home-made bottle rocket. I want to hug you tight, I want you to go to college, get married, and have kids. I want to call you on the phone and tell you how much I miss you…

The moment passes, and the dogs and I stroll home, hopeful of another sunny day, the birth of glorious flowers, and the gardening on the horizon. I miss you, Nik, every day.

Maria and Jesus

DaNae Maria said she took

time coming into this world

because she wanted to listen

to the beat of my heart,

as if it were the strum of

a mountain dulcimer.

Nikolas Jesus, self-proclaimed

master of his own destiny,

carved down my tunnel

like a clawhammer banjo—

fingers flying in

an intricate harmony.

DaNae Maria, like a song,

a joyful jig

on a star struck eve,

the beginning of a smile,

a graceful waltz,

a miracle of dance.

Niko Jesus, blue eyes blazing,

a painted stallion,

the beat of his heart,

thumping wild like a Bodhran.

His wicked wit

a miracle of laughter.

DaNae Maria continues to take her time,

like a slow guitar rift,

while Nikolas Jesus, forever faster

like the pounding of a snare drum

ejected out of our lives.

A seatbelt would have saved him.