The Nook in the Hall

For seventeen months he sat on my dresser. His picture hung directly above him and when I passed by my thoughts were always pulled in his direction. I envisioned him perched up there kicking his feet back and forth bitching about how bored he was or reminding me his box needed to be dusted.

When I moved I had to find a new place to put him. I don't have a mantle, and the coffee table seemed a little up close and personal for visitors. I don't have a dresser and the nightstand was a little up close and personal for ME. While he was often a fan of hanging out in the kitchen, I don't have a lot of counter space and lining him up with the canisters just didn't feel quite right. Putting him inside the cupboards was out of the question as was a corner of the closet... so what to do?

I live in a little house built in the 40s... there's a small nook in the hall right next to the bathroom which was initially meant for the phone to rest. It was just the perfect size and shape for Josh's ashes to set. Where I will see him all the time, where he's close to one of his favorite spots to hang out. Yes, the bathroom. In typical boy fashion he took great pleasure in a healthy bowel movement and even more pleasure in telling everyone about them. So how fitting that he sits by the bathroom door so I smile everytime I go in there. The only thing lacking is his bathroom reader. He always had one to read while he did his best work. I'll have to get one from storage and set it next to him.

No I haven't lost my mind... or at least no more than usual. I just miss him... and I keep him alive in small ways that get me through the day. He always got my sick and twisted sense of humor and would completely understand his placement.

So there in the nook he sits. At least until I am ready to part with him and scatter him to the winds in Yosemite.  He probably won't need the bathroom reader there, but I may shred a page to scatter with him.... Just in case.

The damn kid still makes me laugh. Even through the tears.

Memories Revisited

I'm never sure why some days are harder than others. Today has been a day of memories blasting me from every direction, at a time when my ability to deal with them is at an all time low. They aren't even happy memories, instead, I have been reliving the days surrounding his death and his funeral. Reliving them on an emotional level, to the point that I haven't even been able to say his name without bursting into tears.

I remember how helpless I was to alter the course of events. I remember knowing he was in crisis and not being able to reach him. Feeling the sheer desperation of needing to talk to him so I could try and get him to come home... To reconsider his decision to kill himself. Because when he dissapeared I KNEW that's what he was going to do.

I remember having to call my children and tell them they needed to come to the house. I remember his grandmother wailing in my driveway. I remember his girlfriend dropping to her knees at the door to my garage. I remember dropping with her and staring into the twilight sky and repeating the word "please" over and over and over again. There were infinite meanings to that word, but most prominently I meant please let me wake up. Please make it stop.

I remember finally getting to be with him and realizing his toenails were painted red. I burst out laughing because only MY son would have died with his toenails painted and known I would laugh one last time at his antics. My beautiful child who was strong, virile and all man liked to go with his girlfriend and get pedicures. Does anyone know how precious that is to me?

I remember feeling rushed to leave him that last time. The rest of the family couldn't deal with seeing him that way and had left the room and were waiting for me. I remember not wanting to ever leave... not knowing how to find the strength to resign myself to never gazing upon his face again. He was dead, but at least he was still within my sight. I could see him and touch him and try desperately to commit to memory every little detail of his being. That is perhaps my one regret... that I didn't sit there till I was ready to go instead of when everyone else was.

I remember being the only one holding it together. Writing his obituary, gathering up his pictures, making sure everyone was called.... And all the while thinking I just had to take care of him this one last time. It was my one and only chance to say good-bye to him, to let everyone who loved him know him as I did. I needed to be present... in control. I needed to be strong, competent. I remember wanting him to be proud of me and the results of my plannng. Besides, there was no one else I could let do it. He was mine.

I remember thinking if I could just get it right I could cry later. I could crawl in a hole and die... later.

I remember that once I started crying I wasn't sure I would ever stop.

Yet here I am. 17 months later. Breathing, living, remembering.

Maybe the memories will be better tomorrow, but for today they are almost more than I can bear.

I Remember...

The way he pushed his butt up under my ribcage and straightened his knees out so I could barely breath. Pushing and rubbing on his bottom through the tight skin of my stomach in an effort to get him to relax.

Pacing the floors with him at the hospital in tears because I was convinced he didn't want me for a mother. (because he was crying, as newborns do.)

I remember...

Wincing each time he latched on to my tender breasts, and the way he would only eat until the hunger pains subsided and then fall asleep, only to wake up hungry once again in about 30 minutes.

Him being the noisiest nurser I have ever encountered, even to this day.

The callus he developed on his upper lip.

I remember...

How he wanted so much to be like mommy that he gave up his bottle @ a year and potty trained himself @ eighteen months.

His smile when he woke from his naps and him riding his tricycle down the stairs from the second floor.

The way he escaped from the apartment by precariously stacking the dining room chair, his playschool chair and a couple of phone books to climb up to the deadbolt. Only to be found naked in a mud puddle two apartments down. At seven A.M.... When he was eighteen months old.

I distinctly remember being sure I was the only mother who couldn't keep up with her child or out smart him. Knowing now he was anything but an ordinary child.

I remember....

His first day of kindergarten and him telling the teacher he already knew how to write his name and count. Making it clear she was going to have to do better than that if she wanted to keep his interest.

How his intellect was his gift and his curse all rolled into one confusing bundle for which no child could be prepared.

I remember how sweet he was, how worried he would get if I was crying, as even adults are prone to do on occasion. Especially young mothers who are stressed and trying to grow up with their children.

I remember....

Catching him, his brother Tanner, and his cousin Michael playing star wars in the bathroom. Complete with urine streams as light sabers.

Frequently getting up on Saturday mornings to find the yard mowed and edged just because he wanted let his father and I relax.

Him showing up at my job and throwing me on his back and spinning me around in circles 'till I was dizzy. How we laughed and were completely undignified and how incredibly loved and special I felt.

I remember...

He was such a bright and shining light you would do almost anything to be in his glow. Somehow the world was colder and less hospitable without his warmth, and yet, sometimes he burned so hot it was painful.

I guess the point to this post is.... I remember. The minutes, the moments, the good, the bad and the ugly. I spend inordinate amounts of time spinning the memories 'round and 'round my head in a frenzied fear of forgetting. Perhaps if I start taking a few moments of that time to write them down, a few at a time, I can let go of trying to constantly re-play them, knowing they are recorded somewhere and won't be lost. Perhaps it will take the pressure off of me to be the memory keeper for my five month old grandson who will someday want to know his father.

Breaking Tradition

Traditions are hard to break. When I started having children, I automatically started traditions. I started doing things I would feel the need to continue, without first giving thought to whether or not they were good traditions or force of habit left over from my own childhood.

For years, I've struggled with the commercialism of Christmas. Every year our family would discuss not participating in the whole traditional Christmas routine, and every year we would cave. In the past, there has always been some reason to follow through rather than let someone down or deal with the never ending questions. This year though, no matter how much I would like the option of having our old fashioned Christmas, it's not going to happen. Rather than swim upstream against the currents of change, I've decided to go with the flow.

It will be different this year. New traditions will be created. Only time will tell whether it's for the better or the worse, but never again will I allow myself to get locked in by habit simply because it's a comfort zone. (that has become increasingly uncomfortable)

Truthfully, Josh made the decision for me, but that's fitting since he has always been my impetus for change. I can't even begin to recall all the times in my life I've been motivated to be a better person in order to make his life better or make him proud of me. Knowing how much he despised what Christmas has become gives me permission to do it different this year. Even if it's by using the shadow of his death to do so. I know he wouldn't mind and would approve of our decision.

Come Christmas day, I will gather my family together and we will take time to remember why we love each other. We will spend time, expend thought, and share love. There will be no gifts that are pricey and could have (even potentially)cost someone their life at Wal-mart or any other store. If gifts are exchanged at all, they will be handmade or second hand. If I need proof of this being the right decision, I will wrap the scarf Josh hand wove for me several Christmases ago tighter around my neck and remember how much I treasure it. (Yet, I can't remember what he bought for me last year.)

At the end of the day, I want to be able to mourn the loss of my son secure in the knowledge I've found a way to create good from his life. It's the only gift I can give him.

Days of the Week

Seven weeks. Forty nine days. Today is yet another milestone, one of many anniversaries I have begun to count. The days of the week have become markers in my life, days to remember Josh. My mind touches on the events that have altered my life and I fight the internal battle to make myself focus only on the days of his life rather than his death. Otherwise I feel myself slipping down a greasy slope, sliding faster and faster towards a bottom I do not want to encounter.

Today is the anniversary of his disappearance.
Tomorrow is the anniversary of filing the missing persons report and having to speak aloud our fears to a total stranger.
Thursday marks the day those fears were realized and my son was no longer alive.
Friday I visited the funeral home and said my goodbyes.
Saturday is the day I wrote his obituary.
Sunday, I gathered together pictures and mementos to display at his funeral and wrote the information for the handouts at the service.
Monday marks the day of his memorial service.
Which brings me back to Tuesday which is also the day he came home for the last time.

The weeks are made up of days, completing a circle revolving around Josh. I suspect there will come a time when I no longer count them or some of the days will become less significant than others.

I'm not sure if I'm more fearful of continuing to count or beginning to forget.

My Love, My Heart, My Son

Josh loved Autumn. The briskness of the air, swishing his feet through the leaves and hearing them rustle and crackle beneath his step, the vibrant colors, wearing jackets and beanies, all made him feel invigorated and alive. Each time I step outside and the sharpness of the wind snaps me across my face I think how much he would love to be experiencing it. If only......

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