Psychic Landscape

His psychic landscape, a straight line

dips toward the past,

while mine, curvaceous,

twists and tangles, ad infinitum.

I say, “another mother lost a son.”

A deer, a motorcycle,

drinking and driving;

the mother and father bereft.

He says, “I had a great day at the range,”

and shows me two targets circled in red;

the dots, edged in black

feel like an arrow piercing my heart.

I follow my curves into the past

toward something (the car flipped ejecting him)

I want to forget ad infinitum

and sob into a handkerchief lined in lace.

He talks of paper cartridges and brass bullets

I picture the motorcycle.

A paper cartridge, a bullet

Aimed at the family’s heart.

Tis Golden

Tis golden
The spaces in between
Glitters and dances
Do you know what I mean?

If you follow that rainbow
Just over the dale
Turn left at the river
That goes on like a trail

Ignore gospel and gossip
Gather wild strawberries
Drop fertile frustrations
They’re too heavy to carry

Don’t stop for regrets
Or worry about old bills
Just keep on trudging
Up the rugged hill

Before you know it
An ocean you will hale
in an elegant boat
with a billowing white sail

the winds blow forever
like cool waters and warm sands
reach for infinity
with grateful hands

and in all your travels
that will surely lead you home
where the dog waits patiently
composing canine poems

the gold of your smile
the blue of your eyeslives on forever,
there are no goodbyes

Giving Back

My son, Nikolas Jesus Aguirre, died in a car accident caused by drinking and driving. Worst yet, he was the drunk driver; a seatbelt would have saved his life. But he had the malady of youth, the belief that he would live forever, and so, he died a tragic death that has changed my life forever.

Last week, an old friend came to visit. She had witnessed the birth of my son, and although we hadn’t seen each other for more than eight years, our connection was still strong. I explained to her that the missing still continued to burn a hole in my heart, but that I had many outlets for my grief that made life bearable.

When I told her about performing at drug court graduations, she got teary eyed, and told me about a father that had lost his daughter to cancer 20-years-ago. He had the opportunity to participate in the make a wish foundation to help another child struggling with cancer. Financially, he could help support this endeavor, but physically and mentally, he could not.

At the last drug court graduation, a friend of my son’s graduated from the program. He held his baby daughter in his arms, his face lit up like a thousand stars, his life unfolding in a positive direction, with infinite possibilities.

There was a time when I would have been angry, sad, and incapable of witnessing this event, because my son would never hold his child in his arms. I’m grateful that I can give back, and was able to see this other young man’s infant daughter, to give him a hug, and to tell him, I am so proud of you.

I miss you Niko, everyday.

Garden Grace

Every year, Nik’s memorial garden amazes and delights with an explosion of color. The daffodils begin the parade, announcing the return of summer, swiftly followed by the iris blossoms in an amazing array of purples, yellows, pinks, chocolates, light blues, and lavenders.

I’m not by nature a gardener, but am blessed with numerous gardening friends that bring new treats for me to plant. The garden seems to be blessed by angel wings, because everything grows in Nik’s garden (including the weeds).

Digging in the rich soil, pulling weeds, and caring for the memorial garden brings me a sense of balance and peace. In the garden, I feel as if I am surrounded by my son’s love. It’s a place where I can fight the demons of guilt, anger, and the pain of the missing, and embrace the happy memories and focus on light and laughter.

Soon, the berries will bare fruit, the lettuce will be ready for harvesting, and I will enjoy the produce of this special space created in memory of my son. I miss you, Niko, every day.

RED, by Rhoda Sanford

I read it, long ago
how the trees sing in the wind,
how the tulips dance.
Long ago, I read it.

Today, I watch
red roses bloom,
reflections of the sun,
swaying with the breeze.
I watch today.

Tomorrow I wait
for the birds to flock,
red robins hopping on the grass,
jays scolding from the trees.
I wait for tomorrow.

No Happy Birthday

Happy Birthday. The missing swallows the day. No trace of your smile lines my face. My eyes glitter with tears.

Nik was very proud of his Christmas cactus, which blooms at Christmas. After he died, it donned three flowers that looked like angel wings. On my 50th birthday (in February), it bloomed again. It continues to dazel and amaze every Christmas, and after my brother died a couple of weeks ago, it sprouted with more than 15 flowers. Nik is letting me know that he is with his Uncle Rex.