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.