The Day Time Stood Still

Pain sharpens my memory—and so the day of my son’s death remains harsh and clear—as if it was in digital format, and protected by my shield of grief. At first, the pain felt so overwhelming that I did not think I would survive. I didn’t think I would ever write, or live, or love, again.

The shield of grief weighed at least a ton and felt like a suit of led. Four fleeting years have passed, and I have worn off some of the weight.  Like a glad gardener, digging in the spring soil searching for the sprouts of flowers bursting with life, I remove my helmet of led and dig through my memories, bypassing May 8, the day before my son’s 18th birthday, the day of his death, the day time stood still.

Now, the shield of grief has weak spots worn on it, like the patches on my old jeans, and I can choose my memories. I do not want to completely remove my suit of led. Indeed, I decide to put it on, because I do not want to ever forget my son. But now, I can caress the soft spots, the patches, as if they were my favorite pants, soft and comfortable.  I remember his laugh, his sharp wit—his brilliant blue eyes. I remember him snowboarding like a Greek god, cooking breakfast, or scrambling across the soccer pitch. I focus on the good things I did for him, like letting him adopt a puppy at the animal shelter and buying him a bass.

Because of my beautiful son, I now have a new perspective on life. I am more willing not to dust, deciding to cherish that sometimes illusive and challenging entity, time, and take the moment to call a friend or play that song on my banjo one more time. I have learned how to put fear in the back seat, and experience new and exciting adventures.

At first, I did not have a choice. It hurt to breath, and the blooming of the crocuses was an insult to my mental state. Now, I dig in the garden, my tears feeding the flowers. I have opened my door to life, to love, to creativity. I have the courage to pick up pen, brush, or musical instrument, and let loves vibrations fill me. 

I can see through the shield of grief.  I can dig through my memories to find my son’s smile. He is always only a thought away. He has become timeless, and so, he will always have life. And in an effort to find meaning in his death, I have found new ways to live.

I miss you, Niko, everyday. Happy Birthday.

Birthday Cactus

Nik died in May, and shortly thereafter, three flowers bloomed on his Christmas cactus. It has grown, but never flowered again. Until this month. I sat, mesmerized, watching the white blooms push their way out of the green, swaying toward the light from the window. I cried when I realized that the cactus would be in full bloom for my birthday.

Nik had a good heart and was generous. He loved to give me presents, and I think the flowers were his special gift for my 53 birthday. I touched the first flower that came to fruition. It's pedals were as soft as angel wings. Why, I wondered, did I receive such a magnificent gift, when my son didn't get to celebrate his 18th birthday?

I lie underneath the plant, looking up at the flowers, and felt like I was surrounded by graceful angels. I watered them with my tears, and thanked Nik for his wonderful gift.

Festival

Another Festival bites the dust-did you see the fireworks? I raced with your cousin's children in the back field but I didn't name the fireworks as they blasted above the tent. I'm tired--too tired to sleep and too tired to cry. I never thought about having grandchildren until after you died. I always figured you would give me a handful, but you moved to the stars before you ever had the chance. I see you in the faces of the youngsters, the teenagers, the blue-eyed babies that fall asleep in their mother's arms. I used to hold you tight, and you would stare into my eyes as if trying to memorize every wrinkle.

Stronger Than Ever

People think I am stronger than ever. But it’s simply not true. Sometimes horrible things happen, and the cards we are dealt are simply, the cards we are dealt. I wish I could cheat at cards, and could give myself 5 aces or a full house. I wish Nik had lived and that I had a finished barn and a white picket fence. I wish I had been given a different cross to bear.

The trick, I suppose, is accepting the hand, and getting out of bed in the morning and lacing up your shoes. Certainly, Velcro helps considerably, as does surrounding my self with family and friends. That, I suppose, is the true gift.

Today, gray skies cry rain and a wicked wind brings with it the scents of spring. The snow recedes revealing the rocks the snowplow dredged up. Everyday I move a wheelbarrow full back to the driveway where they belong. Daffodils push their green heads out from the muddy ground, whispering for warmth and sunshine so they can give birth to radiant yellow flowers that mirror the sun. The horses wallow in their bog, rolling in the dirt, playing tag and digging for the new shoots of grass that I can see if I look hard enough, splayed out on the ground on my knees, picking up the unwanted gravel so that the new grass can survive.

What's My Worth?

Friends, what am I worth?

I had the kids over for dinner last night. It was an impromtu gathering. Shy, DaNae’s new room mate, loves pie, so I donned Nik’s apron, pretended to be Mom, and baked a blueberry pie.

The house smelled like warm pie and refried beans. Jenny brought over a bottle of wine, which everyone but me had a taste of. In the middle of dinner, Ryan called and asked if he could drop by.

When he stepped in the door, I demanded, take off your shirt. I want to see your tattoo. His girlfriend, tall, slender, blond, a perfect match for Ryan, smiled. He asked for some of Nik’s ashes, so that when he has the tattoo retouched, he can blend some of the ash into his flesh. DaNae grabbed Nik’s box and we scooped out a couple tablespoons of his gray ash.

DaNae and Ryan talked about old times, camping in the back yard and jumping through bon fires. I covered my ears. Her gang left laden with leftovers—beans, taco meat and the rest of the pie.


I gave Ryan the necklace I bought him over a year ago, saying, “You know, I got pissed at you and almost gave this away. But I decided to wait for you.” We both cried. When they left, he kept turning to give me one more hug. “You’re my other mother,” he said.

And that makes me feel worth plenty.

Masquerade

I don't want to go outside where the temperature dips below zero. I'm wearing my new nightgown and socks (thanks Mom and Fran) and red robe (thanks sis). The house, cozy and warm, with a ray of sunlight filtering above the Christmas tree, casts a shadow around the stained glass horse and prisms off my gorgeous amethyst window pendant, smells like Mayan coffee, which I just brewed.

I'm glad the girls pushed back one of the boards separating their side of the barn from the hay, so they can pull down pieces of grass to quiet their rumbling, fat and furry bellies.

Ok, I finally went out to feed the girls and get wood. Thank goodness the wind has no howl in it.

I'm taking Sandra out to lunch this afternoon, and when I come home, I'll hem up my velvet black pants and get ready for the Masquerade Ball.

I purchased a hand crafted mask in Cabo San Jose for the occasion, but really, sometimes I feel like I always wear a mask to cover the question mark that squeezes my heart like a vice.

Thirty-eight women were selected to attend Hedgebrook, an all female writing retreat. My name did not appear on the list. I use the skin cream that my niece Amin made to salve the new wound created by another rejection. I’d hoped to work on “Sifting Through Ashes” there, perhaps find a mentor or editor to help me complete it.

My demons have escaped from the attic and dance with delight. What makes me think I deserve such an honor? Who cares about my words, my story, my heartache, the demons chant. Did I not murder my son by buying him the car that killed him? Instead of setting up more boundaries, I gave him his freedom and as a result, he died.

Words elude me, so I finished two oil paintings. I kept painting the same image, the beaver pond where DaNae and I scattered some of Nik's ashes. The oil paint has a rich, thick texture that feels good on my skin. I couldn’t get the grass right, so I composed "Storm Horses," inspired by one of Viggo Mortenson's photos. And I actually like the results.

I'll don my new mask this evening, relishing the heavy leather that covers my grief. I’ll haul food to the Masquerade, help Jean set up, hang out for awhile, get a couple dances in, drive home, stoke the fire, and then head to Jenny's to play Bananas and watch fireworks when 2011 dawns.

Cabo

I am a reluctant traveler. But Nik's death has at least taught me to jump over my fear, to say yes to adventure and to friends and family. And so, without any hemming or hawing, I flew to Cabo with my daughter DaNae, fabulous friend, Monique, and her daughter, Kendra.

Cabo was wind and surf and sand and alcohol. The Sea of Cortez stretched out across my horizon. Ad infinitum. Everyone went out drinking but I sat inside and relished some alone time to savor the experience of walking through shop after shop where vendors said, “Senora, come inside to buy something you don’t need,” and the heat of the day sat on my shoulder like a warm hand.

I kept seeing Nik in the Cholo’s, the Vatos, the surfboarders and the ninos that sold trinkets on the beach. I saw him in the dark eye brows, the taste of seviche, the full Mexican smiles and in my daughter’s grin. And thoughts of Nik always leave an empty space, a question mark, next to my heart.

The sand filled my sandals and stuck to the crevisses of my skin, between my toes and in my underpants. A textured roughness that reminded me, yes, I am alive here in this dimension, with the blue skies burning my skin, trudging over this terrain, tripping over cobblestones, trotting horses with the sunset, snorkling with sea lions and skipping with waves.

We took a glass bottom boat to the great arc that divides the Sea of Cortez from the Pacific. I saw Nik on top of the arc—a halo, an angel, an illusion created by the sun filling this place in time with his memory. And I wish he was there on that spot, laughing and body surfing with his sister, the two of them tied together into eternity, safe and sound.