For Thor - 59 - Dead is a Four-letter Word

Today is August 8. One month from today will be your birthday. For the first time in all these years, I dread September 8th and the pain of facing that day without you. I woke up this morning with a heaviness upon me to which I am becoming all too accustomed. It sits upon my chest and wraps itself around my thoughts. It pries up the slices of sanity, calm and acceptance I've pieced together in some weird flotilla to reveal that which will never heal - a mother's longing and my shattered heart. My ribs strain against the bands of sorrow that prevent them from expanding with a refreshing, cleansing breath.

But I rise to greet the day with resolve, and I move into the daily practices that afford me some small measure of comfort and, let's face it, basic functionality. Meditation is hard to today. The mind scampers about in a frantic search for something that feels SOLID, something that can be grasped by this mortal mind…I dunno, like maybe a big hug from you. That was what did it this morning, what triggered the wracking sobs and put me on my knees. I want to hold your hand and give you a hug. I want to hear your voice and feed you breakfast before you head out to work. I miss the sound of you saying "Hey, Mama!" in just that certain way you did. I want you to be here being a pain in the ass as you could sometimes be. Yeah, I miss that, too.

You had such a good life here. I mean you had everything, and now you are gone. I JUST. DON'T. GET. IT! What the hell was it all for? Why did you have to die?

Yes, I am back here, again.

There are no fucking answers. And I want them. I want to know how it is that a beautiful, healthy, smart, friendly, loving, caring, funny, witty, kind and all-around awesome guy with everything going for him can be dead. How the fucking shit is this possible? I don't want to accept it. I don't want to deal with it. I don't want to have to learn to fucking live with it! This grief is awful, painful, tragic stuff. What does it all mean, if the brightest and best among us can up and wink out like a distant star, leaving only a trail of light to sail through an empty sky as a reminder of that life? It all seems so damned pointless to be here, duking it out, in the muck and mire. Why do we bother? What's the dang point? And I don't mean me and my life, Thor, I mean, what's the point of the whole thing? What's the point of all this struggle and drama in this world and the next? What does it matter in the end?

It doesn't. That's what. It doesn't matter in any way shape or form.

It's going to be a long month for me with a lot of ups and downs. The day you were born is so very special to me. It's one of the most important dates in my life. I don't know how to face that day without you, surrounded by all these memories, stories and the unspeakable heartbreak that echoes across the void made by your passing.

Yes, I still feel you here. I know you're as close as my own heart. But dammit, I really, really loved it when you were here with us playing the game alongside. And it was such a good life, too! Why did you have to leave it? Did you mean to go? Was it destiny? A date with a fate that neither of us could stop? Or was it just a tragic act of teenage foolishness that snuffed out your life in the blink of an eye? There are no answers, I mean real, tangible answers. Not faith driven supposings found in a dusty scripture that invites me to relax and rejoice because after all we'll be reunited. When? Where? How? There are no answers, not really. I just have do deal with the hard fact -- you are dead.

Dead is a four letter word. And Death is a fucker, an unfair, unscrupulous, disregarding, blind-ass fucker. Ha! Take that o' Reaper. Kiss my ass! I'm not scared of you. Holy blood and sacred tears flow from my heart and the gaping wound where you blew a hole in it the night you took my boy.

When you were born, Thor, I stepped between the worlds to bring you here. All mothers do. Labor and being born is a dicey business. Let me tell you what; I would step between the worlds and go into the maw of Hell itself to find you, to bring you home. I used to be able to do so much for you, but now I'm useless and helpless in the face of this horror. You are dead, and I can't help that.

What I end up making out of this whole experience is yet to be seen. When I sit quietly and do my inner work, I can find some peace and even a spark of joy. It's when I see our family from the outside perspective, and the Thor-sized hole stares back at me, empty and dark, that it hits me. And when I think of your dad and me and how your birth turned us into a family, making us parents and teaching us about a new kind of love, I just break down and sob. When I see all the beautiful experiences you are missing with people you love and who love you, I find new tears to shed, and they fall wetly onto the photo of your sweet face. We miss you more than words can say. We all need you here, and you're gone. Just gone, and no one can tell me where you are. There is no way to know. It's all faith and guesswork. That doesn't cut it for me, today.

Maybe tomorrow I'll be better. For today, I'm mad at Death, and you can tell him I said so.


I love you,
Mom