For Thor - 43 - Bittersweet

My life has a new flavor, now. Every moment, smile, tear, triumph, or trial is imbued and fragrant with a new aura. Each day I awake and it is there on my tongue, behind my eyes, in my lungs. It colors my speech and infuses my thoughts. Each day dawns with new hope on the horizon, beckoning me to take the first tentative steps into Life. And I do. Only now everything is piquant, tinted and texturized with bittersweet.

On Sunday, Dad and I loaded some things into the camper. We're preparing for our first trip in a few weeks. I opened the cabinets and drawers to place pots, pans, dishes, cutlery and drink koozies in their new places. What I didn't expect to find was the rich emotion of the day. Dad and I were excited to be together getting things ready to embark on an adventure, a very sweet feeling full of promise and good times to come. As I rummaged around in the camper, I stumbled upon some of your things. These little things can hit me hard, giving rise to the tangy bite of bitter.

I found your copy of Safe by a Mile, inscribed to you and signed by Papa. It's the only book I've known you to read voluntarily and while I wish you'd read more, I am so proud and happy that you read that book, in particular. Words cannot express the emotion in my heart at seeing the heartfelt inscription, your name, in your great-grandpa's handwriting. It is endearing and heartbreaking all at once to see where you dog-eared the pages as you read along. You and Papa are both on the other side now. I hope you've found some time to hang out, have a catch, and joke around.

A blue spiral bound book caught my eye as your Dad lifted some things out of one of the closets. It was your Daytimer with a calendar that ran from September 2015 through 2016. Your handwriting is all over it, neat and purposeful. You had written down all of your family's birthdays. You had firehouse meetings and VDOT training days. You and Branden often met as you guys worked to get your side gig off the ground. You had your time off mapped for Thanksgiving and Christmas. And then there is nothing. When I turn the page to January, the page is pristine, white and blank. This little blue book profoundly shook my world, illustrating in a glance the life you expected to live. A life severed in a mere flash.

Your dad went into the barn with a basket full of things to put away. I followed him, not wanting to be alone as rising emotions threatened to choke me. He picked up something and handed it to me. It was your driver's license, an official recognition of you, your life and the fact that you were a person of the Commonwealth of Virginia. Here is tangible proof of your identity, sanctioned by the State. This piece of evidence, along with so many others that recognized you as a citizen of the US, as a presence, remind me that you belonged to a lot of tribes outside of the family tribe. The human tribe, the American tribe, the Virginia tribe, the Buckingham tribe, the VDOT tribe, the Class of 2014 tribe and so many other associations that defined your personality and set up your orientation to life. One more treasured keepsake that I look upon through bittersweet tears.

It was evident that the bitter side of bittersweet was gaining ground, so your dad suggested that we hit a few practice balls with the golf clubs. Having nothing better to do, I agreed. We teed off into the newly cleared area next the driveway. For a person who hasn't swung a golf club in 35 years, I did pretty well. I just need to knock a little rust off my swing. I used your clubs, Thor, and they fit me just right. We went to look for the balls so we could hit them again. As I scanned the area looking for yellow balls, I spied a bottle sticking up out of the tree and leaf litter. It was a nearly full bottle of Captain Morgan's Spiced Rum.

I couldn't believe my eyes! Last summer you were arguing with someone in the driveway. That bottle of rum was in your hand. The argument escalated, and in a fit of frustration, you hurled that thing into the woods. I figured that you had retrieved it later after things cooled off. Apparently not. I was more than surprised to find it here, now. Even after the loggers cut down and grappled all these trees, and they rolled back and forth across the area with their big machines, this bottle of rum remained intact. Bittersweet. The bottle of rum brought back a memory of a day that was not so ideal for you. It was a time when you were trying to figure out so many things in the midst of heartbreak and uncertainty.

I remember that day for some other reasons, too. It was the day you returned to me in a way, seeing me once again as your greatest ally and resource for unconditional love. This was a big, mom moment. All parents know that we have to let our kids go. We need to let them find their way. Eventually, we hope, they will come around. I'm so grateful that you and I reconnected like this before you died, sweetheart. You told someone once that you knew I would do anything in the world for you, anything at all, because you knew that I had your back. It's hard to imagine coping with all of this if I hadn't had that chance.

The bittersweet character of my life continues to unfold. There is a reason to celebrate, even in times of sadness. Xan and I took Chaz to get his learner's permit, yesterday. He passed the test on the first try and now has his own set of credentials from the State. I tucked away my sorrow to be with him at this milestone in his life. He deserves to have a smiling, loving mom who is present and happy for him. It was a hard test for me, but I think I passed. While we waited for the DMV clerk, I recalled taking you to get your learner's permit and later, your driver's license. (The one that is now on my dresser where I can see it every day.) But I had to look beyond the memories and specter of you, Thor, to see Chaz and to let him know that I see him. Afterward, we went out for celebratory lunch. I even had a Dr. Pepper (you know I never drink soda!) with Chaz and a toast to his new status as a driver. I pushed this grief aside for a time to just be with your brothers. They regaled me with stories of their video games, music, and favorite authors. I listened, and we laughed together.

I suspect bittersweet is a permanent part of the new life; the one where we learn to live without you here among us. I can't bring myself to call it the "new normal." This is not normal; this is extraordinary, mind-blowing, heartbreaking and, at times, surreal. Not normal. As we move through this experience, we share the sweetness of joy found in life and each other, even as we shed bitter tears over your profound absence. 

I love you,
Mom