For Thor - 68 - Autumn in the Air

The weather turned chilly over the past few days. We shut off the air conditioner and opened the windows to let in the smell of wet leaves and rain. Yesterday was the first day of archery season, and our hearts broke, again. It's your favorite time of year, and you aren't here to sift through the storage bins of hunting apparel and gear. You aren't here to don yourself in camo from head to foot and perch in a tree stand for hours waiting for a buck to pass by your line of sight. Hunting season lit a fire of childlike enthusiasm and genuine excitement inside of you; a time to be outside, in nature, with your friends and doing what countless generations of humans have done through the ages, hunting game to feed the tribe. It called to you from the very first time you heard the stories and saw your Pap and Dad head out into the woods.

Many nights the family casually gathered in the basement at Mimi and Pap's house or around the fire pit outside, and you'd say in your little four-year-old voice, "Let's tell hunting stories, Pap." And Pap would bring the hunt to life for you, how he and his buddies were here or there and the nature of the day, the hunt, the sighting, the kill, and tracking. Then your dad would tell a story about when he and his buddies went out. Uncle Daren would have us doubled over laughing with the tales he shared. And then you'd take a turn spinning up a story of your own, entirely imaginary of course since you hadn't ever actually been hunting at the tender age of four, but it was entertaining has hell to hear it! We didn't dare laugh; you were so sincere. The lore of the men in the clan is passed down to the next generation through storytelling. As Chaz and Xan came along and grew old enough, they got in on the stories, too. It was hilarious because you would make Mimi and me share one, as well. We appreciated the inclusion and could usually manage a decent tale, even if it was made up. And you'd laugh at us because we usually got something terribly wrong; my deer usually got away!  You paid rapt attention to Pap, Daddy, Daren, Dwight, Jerry and so many others who you considered your man clan. God, what precious times those were.

Your dad, brothers and I went outside and shot our bows for a while after I got dinner in the oven. You were in all our thoughts, I know. You should be here helping find stray arrows and cheering the great shots - especially mine, Ha! I nailed the target at 10, 20, 30 and 40 yards with the crossbow. Every time the bolt found the mark, I imagined hearing you say "Damn, Mama!" your brothers really did say, "Damn, Mama!" and someone piped up with "Don't piss her off!" And dad called me Belle Starr, his moniker for me when I prove I can shoot. I especially missed hearing you laugh and the mandatory bragging banter between brothers that always ensues when target shooting is involved. Chaz is fantastic shooting his recurve bow, he looks like an Elven warrior from a Tolkien book and is just as deadly accurate with that thing. Xan has the same casual approach you do and some of your swagger, too. He and Dad are spot on with their compound bows. All in all, we put a lot of holes in that target.

I plan on hunting this year alongside the fellas with the aim of putting food in the freezer, just like you always did every year since you were old enough to hunt. Golly, you were so proud to do that! We have just a few small packages of deer chops remaining from your last successful hunt. You and Travis were a force to be reckoned with whenever you two went out. Those last few packages of chops, well, I've been saving them. They have your handwriting on the outside paper, and I think of how happily you wrapped and labeled this meat for the benefit of the family. It's surreal to eat a meal provided by you, when you are ten months gone. Ten months! How the hell is that possible?

The temperature is dropping and the nights are growing long. The calendar rolls with an unstoppable current into this final season of The First Year Without You. This season will be the hardest one as we deal with the Big Holidays, and the worst day of all, the anniversary of your death. New Year's Eve is a holiday I doubt I will ever celebrate again in this life. I'll just quietly hang a new calendar the next day, and that will be that. So many thoughts about you and your life and death run in the background of my mind, a constant sidebar conversation and sometimes blatant interrupter of the moment. I still crumble in tears without warning, like on the first day of archery and you weren't here. Or the smell of a cold rain blowing in that makes the deer run in anticipation of the upcoming rut.

We find ways to connect with you, each in our way. Xanny played his guitar the other night, going through all the songs you were teaching him like "Life By The Drop" and "Die A Happy Man." He brought you to life in a bittersweet moment through the strum and pluck of guitar strings. I burst into wracking sobs in the living room, Xanny never knew. Chaz was putting away dishes and stopped to give me a hug. Dad did the same thing, one evening he just picked up your guitar and started playing it, running through the songs you two sang together. It broke me up as he sang "The Conversation" and had to sing your part, too. I can still hear your voice in my head. My Lord, we miss you, Thor. 

Autumn is in the air, my boy, and you feel more absent than ever. This feeling pushes me to seek you out in the places you loved best. I'll look for you in the woods and listen for you in the wind. Come hang out with me there, okay?

I love you,
Mom