[This patchwork was written June 25 to a prompt in writing class. Forgive the repetition of things said before. It is part of the grieving process I now know. Saying it and then saying it again].
It must be the last day of school. It is loud over there. Loudness with jubilation.
A man walks past out front. What? No dog?
I will water everything today, even though it rained heavily in our absence. I’m allowed. I will order groceries online. A small extension of grace to myself.
The peace lily that sat on the table next to Danny’s body at the chapel in Longmont now blooms. It was a gift from a former girlfriend — a young woman schooled in grief having lost her beloved brother just a few years prior.
I hear doves cooing. In LA, most evenings an owl occupied the ficus tree outback and hooted. One hoot with a hitch, followed by two smooth hoots. An East Coast owl would produce three smooth hoots, we learned from my brother.
Agent of wisdom, harbinger of death – but can an owl also act as a messenger from the other side? On our second-to-last day at my brother’s, I found an owl feather below the tree. It sits now on the box of Danny’s ashes but there is scant comfort in constructed symbolism, no matter how unexpected or serendipitous.
Ten minutes after arriving home, I have the hose in my hand and look! Here comes one of the neighborhood robins, food in her beak. “Oh hello!” I say. My friend in Lincoln recently shared that after her husband died, a pair of robins showed up repeatedly at her back sliders – looking in, eager and intent.
I have nothing to prove.
I have lots to clean up.
There’s weeding to do for one thing. Always weeding. There are feeders to fill and a broken heart in need of tending. It will never be fixed, my broken heart, but it does demand care.
How the dark scared me last night!
After fourteen days of being subject to my brother’s TV selections, having power over the remote control helps with my mood. A little anyway. How pathetic. Especially when I keep hearing Danny’s final words to me.
Recall that when he asked why should he should be back by four, I mentioned a birthday cake adding, “And because every time you leave I sit here in anguish wondering if I’ll ever see you again.” And on that fateful morning, his final morning, the morning of his 30th birthday, he answered, “Maybe find a show to watch?”
I honestly think he was trying to be helpful.
When had I last said “I love you”? Not a hand-wringing question because we said “I love you” to each other all the time. Every phone call. And he knew I loved him even if I didn’t say it. But still, I wonder: when was the last time I told Danny I loved him?
A new round of regrets emerges. I wish in those last 10 days I’d sat next to him more. Not to campaign for his survival, not to query about his pain, just to sit side-by-side. Close. Every moment I was distracted now seems like a loss. What do you mean I went down to the hotel lobby for breakfast and wrote for an hour? And why didn’t I ride in his car instead of with Ken when we drove to the rental unit?
Well, for one thing he was insistent about needing to be alone. Drove to Nederland because he needed to be alone. Went fishing because he needed to be alone. Drove around after going to the gym.
For another thing, he had to be alone to purchase a gun. To make his plan.
I wake and don’t know what coast I’m on. We thought we’d be awake till midnight or later our first night home but crashed at 10:30.
I have nothing to prove.
I have lots to clean up.
Should I be trying something new? Baking bread, for instance. Or sewing garments. Challenges for the body and mind, perhaps offering a balm for the soul.
I think perhaps we should go to Iceland for Christmas. Will we have swept the midterms? I cannot even think about the collection of ornaments in the attic. One every year, gifted to each boy.
It costs $40 to go to Good Harbor Beach now and you need a reservation. It’s enough to make me wanna find a beach in Rhode Island. Or to stay home. And water the garden.
There is something I keep saying in my head to my dead son. “I wish you could’ve stayed.”
Over and over. “I wish you could’ve stayed.”
Is it terrible to admit that I also feel relief on his behalf? All struggles done, laid to rest. All worries, some of them life-long, bundled and tossed overboard. Relief.
Turns out genre murder mysteries are not the escape I’d hoped for. So many survivors of the crime of murder after all are parents. Of course they are. Kate Atkinson I now know is an ace at describing grief. Would I have even noticed her skill five months ago?
How cozy does a mystery have to be to afford escape? No possible suicides. No parents of dead kids. Gun shot deaths are problematic as are well-depicted aching absences in the aftermath of violence. Good luck.
I have nothing to prove. Surviving the day is challenge enough.
The kids over the fence scream with excitement and joy. It’s the last day of school. I hope it’s early release — for their sake. So much happiness is exhausting. Just like so much sorrow.
The peace lily from Katie thrives. Danny did not. Her brother did not. But do you know who is thriving? Hunter Biden! And I’m here for every word of his snarky comebacks. Our president is insane. It is no longer an exaggeration and that’s all I’ll say about that.
Today I will look at bread recipes. Maybe flip through my drawer of sewing patterns too. Definitely will water the garden – front and back. “Jet” setting to clean the birdbath and scare the rabbits. “Shower” setting for everything else.
Hoo-et. Hoo. Hoo. I stood under the ficus and peered up, hoping to catch sight of the bird as if to do so would confirm some holy structure of the world and restore all manner of broken things.
The next morning: a feather on the ground.
