For Thor - 33 - Ten Weeks

The season is turning. With each passing day tree buds swell, birds line their nests and the days grow longer. I find that I miss you very much, especially in the early spring evenings when you and dad would move out to the porch to pick a few songs out on the guitars. These moments, when you guys bonded through song and laughter, are treasured memories to me. Today marks a fleeting 1680 hours, a mere seventy days, or ten short weeks since you died. Gah!

Since you died…

Died. Died. Died…That fucking word is just so hard to get my head around. I am not used to not having my way. I'm not accustomed to problems that I can't fix. It's not acceptable that death has befallen my son and the finality that word brings spins me out of rational thought.

I am heartbroken that you are not here. As these milestones come and go; like the changing of the seasons, I am plunged into sorrow, and I attempt to comprehend the words "dead" and "died" and "death". The concept of death has been with me since I was a child - as it is with all of us. A warning from an adult tells me to be careful, that this or that could kill me. The passing of a grandparent or friend over the years brought the concept closer to my personal sphere. But this, your death, is something else entirely. Losing a child must be the closest thing to dying that a living person can experience. Plus we have the added agony of remaining here on earth to suffer death. We are not liberated to dwell in the ethereal, heavenly realm like you are. A large piece of me, the one that is you, has been cleaved away by death.   I'm a great mama tree that has lost one of her biggest branches in hurricane force winds. I will never be the same again, my shade, and shape permanently altered. Unbalanced and precarious in the wind, I seek a new center-point.

 I keenly feel the agony of your death now. They say this is normal. That I'm right on track for how this grieving shit is supposed to work. It's odd; I feel as though I am simultaneously getting better and hurting more deeply. Perhaps this is a gift of nature, which allows me to grieve without losing my shit; the worst, deepest pain doesn't come until I've regained a little strength so I can bear it. Can I? There are moments when I wonder.

The image of a volcano keeps coming to mind. The eruption blows fire, ash and red-hot lava sky-high obliterating the landscape and blocking out the sun. Hot magma cascades in deadly, yellow-orange streaks down the mountain side. It is voracious and ruthlessly consumes everything in its path. As the river of magma flows away from the heat of the earth's core, there are black formations where the surface begins to cool and harden. These pieces of crust are pulled back into the river of liquid rock where they collect more magma and rise once again to the surface where the air hardens them even more. And so, further away from the source, the hot liquid lava becomes stable enough that a person can walk on it. The natural world provides, once again, a good illustration of how I feel. The volcanic eruption of your death spews forth, continuing to emit fresh sorrow from the depth of my being. The searing hot pain of grief still runs hot and fast through my heart. As time has passed, there is more than just the immediacy of the pain.  There are the far reaches where sorrow has run that are beginning to calm or heal. This freshly healed surface is where I can once again allow me to interface with the world.  But make no mistake, just beneath the surface runs a molten river of loss that, now and then, breaks through the newly formed crust and I flat out, melt down. 

From day to day I don't know if I'll be up or down. Little things trigger deep emotions; seeing a young man in a nice pickup truck, a song, your tee-shirts in a stack in my room, your picture smiling at me and the knowledge that those smiling eyes are closed forever. I miss you more than words can say, and I am so sincerely sorry that you won't get to live your life. The "you" that is my son lives solely in memory, now. I curse the fact that I didn't indelibly carve each interaction with you in my mind. It is unjust that this fickle mind has subconsciously not committed or has purged thousands of moments with you. So, now you are even less whole since I must rely on the spotty accuracy of this brain. Photographs help. I treasure the snippets of video that have come my way. I love to hear your voice.

I'm kinda rambling today, Bubby. The attention span, along with the memory is a bit iffy these days; think Dorrie from Finding Nemo. Maybe it will get better with time. We can't push time any faster. It ticks along at its own pace. I'll try to be patient and will lose myself in this garden for a while. Drop by and see me, okay? Send a cardinal and sit a spell with me by the koi pond. The natural world helps me understand so much of what is going on. Besides, anything is always better when you are here.

I love you,

Mom