Birds of Prey

Saturday we dismantled my sons life. We sorted, boxed and organized his possessions into categories and labeled the boxes and the whole time I felt as if I were a scavenger picking the flesh from his very bones. Touching his knick-knacks, folding his clothes, finding his intimate belongings. Toothbrush and razor into the trash because he will never need them again. (But only after coaching to do so) Condoms following behind, because realistically, who wants to use a dead man's condom? How ironic is it that he would practice safe sex, but commit suicide?

For now, it all goes to storage. I am not able to make a rational decision about the smallest of items, and it feels too wrong to be scattering his belongings to the winds. I don't even want to bring things home because it makes it too real, too permanent. The days stretch before me in vast deserts of Joshlessness, and my mind often leads itself astray to a mirage oasis where he is only gone for the moment, not forever. In Dallas for the weekend perhaps. When reality comes crashing in, it can only be allowed to stay for a brief while before I am swallowed whole by the sheer hopelessness of living the rest of my life without him. Those are the moments I consider his path understandable, desirable even. At the very least, I've quit hoping to live to an old age.