Walk with me

John said “Hi” to me today.   He got my attention by screeching as he flew to the very top of the Redwood tree that towers above our house. There he perched, 100 feet above, looking down at me.  I waved.  He screeched back.  I waved again, silently thanking him for checking in.  He twisted his head so he could get a good look at me.  I think he might have winked, but really, he was too far away for me to tell.

John’s spirit animal revealed itself on the day we dedicated his memorial bench in Sibley Regional Park. It was an incredible 45 minutes wedged into a busy Christmas Eve day, chosen to accommodate John’s friends home for Christmas. Torrents of rain and hail fell in the morning but began to ebb as the time drew close. We scanned the sky as we drove toward the bench, hoping the weather would hold off. At the stroke of noon, the appointed time of the ceremony, the clouds broke above us and sunshine poured through.  At 12:10, just as I was trying to figure out a way to get everyone’s attention, a solitary Red Tailed Hawk flew directly overhead on a straightaway north to south path screeching the entire time it was over us. The hundred or so people gathered were instantly silenced and awed. It was nature’s flyover to open the ceremony.  It was John. It was an unforgettable moment.

The Red-Tailed-Hawk-that-is-John has built his nest in an equally tall pine tree on the fence line between Shelby’s family home and ours.  He can easily keep an eye on us, and see Shelby and Ally-dog if they happen to be home for a visit. This makes me particularly happy.  I know it’s not really him, but it offers me daily proof that life, in its many ways goes on.  As in the passage from Wallace Stegner’s book, Crossing to Safety that I read at John’s Colorado Memorial.

Still none of us found anything to say. Air moving uphill from the woods and lake stirred the seeding flower-heads of Delphinium that rose above the wall. A Monarch butterfly caught in the draft was lifted twenty feet over our heads. I saw Sid look away to follow the Monarch’s movement. Perhaps he was fantasizing, as I was, that there went part of what had once been the mortal substance of relatives who had passed before this, absorbed by the root of a beech tree in the village cemetery, incorporated into a beechnut, eaten by a squirrel, dropped as a pellet in a meadow, converted into a milkweed stalk, nibbled and taken in by this butterfly, destined to be carried south on a long, unlikely, interrupted migration, to be picked off by a flycatcher, brought back north in the spring as other flesh, laid in an egg, eaten by a robbing jay and laid as another kind of egg, blown out of a tree in a windstorm, to melt into the earth yet again, and thrust upward again, immortal, in another milkweed stalk preparing itself to feed more Monarch butterflies.

The timing is about right.  John’s DNA, seeping into and enriching the soil in various places around the West have nourished the roots of some plant, that was nibbled by some insect, that was eaten by a small bird that was preyed upon by a Red-Tailed Hawk that laid the egg that hatched into what is now John’s spirit animal living in our back yard.  He calls to me every few days.  I go out and wave, a catch in my throat, a little extra moisture in my eyes and grasp a sliver of hope and comfort from the experience.  In some small way, he is here with me.

In November it was time to turn John’s room into a guest room.  The sky blue paint he had picked in second grade was chipped and faded.  The duvet cover was torn, re-stitched and torn again.  Posters were falling off the wall.  His bulletin board, with childish clowns spelling “JOHN” across the top, was an indication an update was long overdue. It should have been done years before his room turned into a shrine.

His great grandfather’s desk dominated the room and it had to go.  A huge old roll-top, it had always been too big for the room, but he loved it and wanted it because it belonged to the other John Coupins before him.  He loved all the little drawers and shelves and compartments.  Perfect to store lots of stuff in, eliminating much need for other furniture.  Preparing to move it to storage, I spent a few hours sorting through everything in it.  John was a disorganized mess, and the desk was evidence of it. Only three of the many drawers had a dedicated purpose.  I knew about these three because occasionally when I was tidying up, I would place items in the appropriate drawer. One was for loose change.  One filled with random treasures and trinkets found throughout childhood.  And one for tickets.

I turned over the ticket drawer onto the desk and out spilled memories.  Hundreds of memories.  Disneyland tickets. Tony Blair at the Oakland Speaker Series. Stacks of Oakland A’s baseball games.  CAL football games, Sharks, Warriors, Raiders. SO MANY movie tickets. A baseball game at Arizona State.  A football game at the University of Oregon. A CAL bowl game in Las Vegas. There were airplane tickets and electronic hotel keys, a Paris metro ticket and a museum ticket from the Pre-Columbian Gold Museum in Costa Rica, all brought home over many miles in a jacket pocket and placed in the ticket drawer.

There were concert tickets; Merle Haggard in 2002, Depeche Mode in 2005. Snowglobe 2012.  A show at the Independent with Shelby and Paul and I eight months before he died. We had gone to dinner at Mua in Oakland then to live music in the city.  A double date. I thought we would have so many more nights like that, but it was the only one.

He saved tickets from classical performances that he grudgingly attended.  The annual tradition at Grace Cathedral’s Christmas concert.  He complained the whole way there, but still saved the tickets.

He had mindfully set all the tickets aside in an uncharacteristically organized manner.  And with that, he can say to me, from wherever he is, “See Mom?  We had a really great time here together, and it meant a lot to me, so much that I took care to save these. Thank you. I got a whole lot of living in while I was here. Here is the proof. I want you to know that it was enough for me.”

It was amazing.

Today would be your 23^rd birthday, but you are frozen in time just short of 22.  You are constantly with me. My days are filled with thoughts of you, even a year later.  I’m surrounded by things that remind me of you.  Every day, all day long I make connections to you, like this…..

A red Honda Fit passes me on the roadway.  I turn and look.  Of course it’s not you, but I can’t help but look, and wish.   Sometimes I think it is the ghost of you, flashing by, sending me a little “Hi Mom!”

A tall and handsome early twenty-something guy is getting on the airport shuttle.  His hair is a little long. He has a back pack slung over his shoulder.  He is wearing high white socks with his vans.  John socks.  Hi John. I’m remembering you.

Down by 17 with 6 minutes left, Steph Curry’s three-point shot at the buzzer sends the  Warriors into overtime in game three of round one of the playoffs.  Oh, how I wish I could hear you and Paul talking about the game on the phone.  Watching overtime together.

Minions.  With the release of Despicable Me II there are minions everywhere.  I remember you loved minions for some reason.  The minions staring at me from billboards, shopping carts, buses, store windows make me feel like you are looking at me….and laughing.  What did you like about these guys John?

A cheerful mixed race woman with dreadlocks is walking up the stairway next to me at Whole Foods in Oakland.  We laugh together as we both sidestep in the wrong direction trying to get out of each other’s way.  At the top of the stairs she offers me a flyer for a concert and asks, “Do you like Reggae?” and I say, “No, not really.” Adding automatically, “But my son does.”, in a half-hearted attempt not to offend her.  My son.  My son DID like Reggae music.   My son John. Oh, John.

Sweet Disposition by the Temper Traps is playing on my first visit ever to Dick’s Sporting Goods.  It’s the song I used to accompany your music video for your memorial.  It’s an obscure song, not one that should be playing at Dick’s Sporting Goods.  “Why here?  Why now?”  “Are you playing this for me right now John?”  Your music pops up in all kinds of surprising locations…

Like when Dad and I were working out in the gym on vacation in Hawaii.  “Don’t you worry Child” by Swedish House Mafia was playing.

http://https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1y6smkh6c-0

Your songs follow me and I can’t help think that you are controlling it somehow.  The songs we picked for the CD that John Allenberg made for you.  They follow me. “Wake Me Up” came on during the pre-game festivities at the A’s game.  Did you make that happen John?

“So wake me up when it’s all over
When I’m wiser and I’m older
All this time I was finding myself
And I didn’t know I was lost

I tried carrying the weight of the world
But I only have two hands
Hope I get the chance to travel the world
But I don’t have any plans

Wish that I could stay forever this young
Not afraid to close my eyes
Life’s a game made for everyone
And love is the prize”

http://https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5y_KJAg8bHI

Hiking in the Sierras.  2,000 feet straight up in 1.5 miles.  I’m struggling in the heat.  I’m sucking wind on such an intense uphill climb.   A butterfly zooms in front of me, loops around and lands on a branch just above me ahead on the trail.  I pause to look at and it slowly opens and closes its wings. Once, twice, three times.  A salutation.  It’s waving at me.  I see you.  I love you mom.  I see you too John. Thank you John, I love you!

I’m on the dock at Lake Combie, lulled by the lap of the waves, relaxing in the anti-gravity chairs, the most comfortable deck chairs ever.  Remember the day we got those chairs John?  We brought them down to the dock and ate blackberry pie warm from the oven, made from berries picked that afternoon.

I think of that moment and the tears pool up.  I lift up my sunglasses and quickly wipe my eyes so no one can see me crying.  I miss you so much John.

I’ve never noticed so many dragonflies and butterflies.  They are everywhere.  Floating across the lake, flitting along the trail, perching on branches above me, buzzing me in the hammock.  I think of Wallace Stegnar and Crossing to Safety again and again.  The mortal substance of what was once a microscopic bit of John.  Hi John!  I see you John!  I love you John!

Grocery shopping at the cabin.  I need some chips for our guest’s kids for lunch.  Barbeque!  That’s what I’m looking for!  A new brand.  Kettle cooked in small batches from organic potatoes.  Perfect.  At home, I open the bag to share a taste with Paul.  He looks.  Boulder Canyon brand.  Made in Boulder.  “John would have loved these.” He says.  “Yes.” I say.  You would have loved them John.  I wish you could taste them John.  I wish you were here having lunch with us John.

An older guy walks by me wearing a Nor Cal tee shirt. It’s an old one. It’s the same one you had John. You’re wearing it in that photo in Belize.  That was a fun trip John.  I wish that we could take another trip together.  I miss you.

There is another Honda Fit.  “Hi John!”

Another butterfly, “Is that you John?”

I’m getting ready to go out and I reach for my favorite scented body lotion.  You gave me some the last few Christmases, remember John?  I always need a supply of my “signature” scent.  I check to see how much I have left.  What will I do when the last of your last gift to me is all gone?  Oh John, I miss you.

A zesty tomato sauce over a mix of kale and rice pasta calls for a glass of red wine at dinner.  It’s a weeknight, so we should only have one glass.  Saving the remainder of the bottle calls for the recorking/extracting the extra air device that you gave us as a last Christmas gift.  We use it all the time.  It works so well.  We think of you every time we use it John.  Thank you!

It might be the last night of the summer warm enough to eat outside.  I shake out the tablecloth, laying it on the teak table on the outdoor patio.  I think of all the other meals we’ve had outside on warm summer nights together.  I cherished those dinners then and I treasure them even more now.  How I wish you could sit here at the table with us tonight John.  I miss you.

Another Honda Fit following me today.  I keep looking back in the rear-view mirror hoping that one time it will be you.  Following me home.  Oh how I wish it was you.

Neil Young playing on the radio when I turn on the car after filling up at the gas station. I remember how you came home that one time and played Neil Young over and over.  Harvest Moon sings out from the radio.

“Because I’m still in love with you, I want to see you dance again”

 And of course the sirens.  Every morning there is a siren and I spin back to the nightmare of a year ago when a siren screamed toward your apartment.  Every morning, every siren, I think of you and my heart stops for a moment.  I am shaken into the reality that this is all true.  That I will live the rest of my life without you in it.  Remembering you and missing you every single moment of every single day.

August -2015

Matt helps me into my backpack. I lean forward letting the full weight of the pack fall onto my back like a turtle’s shell and I clip the waist belt. I adjust the shoulder straps and clip them together, grab my hiking poles and start down the trail. I’m leaving Cinko Lake in the Hoover Wilderness. 9,120 feet. I’m getting a head start on Matt and Paul. They will catch up to me soon. I’m moving slowly on this trip and feeling bad about it. The trail skirts the edge of the lake and I see glimpses of it through the trees, granite cliffs reflecting in the still, blue water.

The trail curves away from the lake and climbs through a lush meadow with the last trickle of winter snow-melt feeding it. One last glance at the lake, dotted with fish rising. High Sierra beauty. This is what I am looking for out here. Beauty. Serenity. It’s overwhelming. The tears flow as thoughts of John hit me profoundly and suddenly.

Alone on the trail I feel empowered but also a little afraid. My mind meanders and I lose the trail for a moment in a carpet of pine-cones. I second guess my path. Could I have missed the Pacific Crest Trail turnoff? My rational brain reminds me that the PCT will look like a freeway by comparison. I’m completely immersed in my solitude. Falling into my own pace, my unique cadence comforts me. No lingering feeling of shame about lagging behind. No pressure to keep up. I connect the experience with the words from the grief counselor. “We grieve at our own pace.”

A slight bit more anxiety that I still haven’t met up with the PCT. Trust my instincts. Use my brain. I think about my instincts associated with the last year of grief. Give myself a year I said. Feel the pain. Cry. Do what feels right. Don’t push it.  So far it is what I need.  I’m not sure how I’ll feel at a year.  I don’t know what lies ahead on this trail any more than I know what lies ahead as I grieve.

Finally, my trail meets up with the PCT. My instincts were correct. The PCT looks like a well-tended autobahn by comparison. Rocks line the trail. There are stairs chiseled from granite.

I marvel at the monumental undertaking to create the network of trails here, throughout the Sierras and all wild spaces. At some point, a crew of people spent a whole summer out here blasting stone and shoving it into place. Most likely with timber levers. There is no way to get a bulldozer out here. I offer up a silent appreciation for those who have sacrificed for me to have this trail and this experience.

I connect that thought to the crew of my friends who have helped maintain the virtual path I’ve walked as I’ve grieved this past year. I send another gratitude out into the clear blue sky. Thank you to those who have have called, messaged, written. Those who have brought food and little gifts. Cards and hugs and invitations to dinner. Thanks to the people who have cried with me, handed me tissues, not been shaken when I’ve broken down, those who have broken down with me, those who have held me when I’ve broken down. Those who continue to be there for me almost a year later when it’s still impossibly hard.

The dusty trail of the PCT is a tapestry of hiking boot treads  heading north and south. Who do they belong to? How far did they come? Where are they going? What stories accompany them? I remember the fresh faced young women we encountered a month ago along the ridge of Squaw Valley where the PCT creeps through. Sisters in their very early twenties from Wisconsin who had begun their journey at the Mexican border. They must have been here weeks before that, about two months ago. I think of the people who walked my path with me over the last year. Some out of curiosity, some reluctantly, some with love, with regularity. Some once. Some a few times. Some weekly.  Those hikes have saved me.  I”ll be hiking for a long time.

I’ve settled into my solitude, lost in my thoughts, respecting my body’s pace. I’m well down a hot, steep trail that’s all switchbacks. By the sixteenth switchback the forest is starting to fill in. I’m feeling good. Alive. Capable. Strong even. I hear a whistling, a singing behind me. Footsteps. It’s Matt!

“Hey Mom! You’re fast!” He smiles a half smile. “Dad asked me to catch you and tell you to wait for him.”

We find two fallen logs in the shade and sit facing each other. We talk a little and then fall silent for a while. It’s not long before Paul appears and we continue down the trail. All three of us together.

Walking out to get the mail last week, I noticed that the sun was hitting the house at the same angle and with the same intensity. The air smelled the same. Summer getting shorter, halfway done. A familiar drone to the traffic on Moraga Way; the late afternoon sound of commuters returning home. It feels the same. The same as that last day we were all together. “Let’s take one more photo on the front porch!”

The front porch; where stacks of other photos were taken.

First day of school.

Ready to go Trick-or-Treating.

A Christmas Card.

One more photo before we go.

I didn’t know it would be the last one.

I’m thinking of you John. It was a year ago, and I’m transported back to that date, that moment. We had our penultimate 2.5 days together at the lake and now it was time for Matt to get back to Cambridge and prepare for his school year. We had stretched out our time together as far as we could, wedging it in-between Matt’s attendance at Outside Lands and your work schedule. Do you remember? Matt agreed to a red-eye so we could have as much time together as we could. We left the lake as late as possible.  You had to stop at In-n-Out, leaving Matt only an hour to pack before we had to leave for the airport.  United flight 408 departing at 8:53 PM, Wednesday August 13th, 2014. A year ago.

It was almost time to go. We were out in front, stalling. Matt was packed, but not ready to leave, not ready to say goodbye. Casey stopped by to pick you up. You two were going to hang out, grab some dinner, and catch up while Dad and I took Matt to SFO. Good thing he came by. He was able to take that last photo. Remember?

I’m not sure what we did on Thursday. I only have text records and date stamps on photos as clues to help me remember, and there are none. I guess it was a day like any other when you were here. My wanting to take in as much as I could of you, as much as the 21-year-old-you would let me.  I was always trying to get a reading on how you REALLY were feeling. How you were REALLY liking your job. How you were REALLY dealing with Shelby being in Argentina. I wish I could remember more. There is a blurry vision of us in the kitchen, chatting while I made you food, but I could have it mixed up with any number of other days. I didn’t know this would be the last one.

Your flight back to Colorado left on Friday morning at 10:25. You needed to return early enough to get to work that night. Southwest flight 913 out of Oakland, a convenient time for Dad to drop you off on his way to the office, so I didn’t go. I tried to make you your favorite breakfast or pack something for the flight but you said you weren’t hungry, you’d get something at the airport. There would be plenty of time. A big hug in the driveway. I didn’t know this would be the last one.

You loaded Ally-dog into the back of the car and hopped into the front seat. I waited for you to look up after you buckled your seat-belt.  Dad backed the car out and turned down the road. I stood waving from the garage in my plaid flannel pajama pants and fleece pullover. Bye John! See you soon!

You were looking down at your phone. You didn’t see me waving goodbye.

And then, you were gone.

Nine months.  The human gestation period.  A school year. The number of months that John has been gone.  Nine months today.

Matt made it through almost three weeks of his sophomore year before John died.  One of the classes he was taking was Philosophy and Time, described in the course catalog as:

Considers a wide range of philosophical questions about time through the lenses of metaphysics, philosophy of mind, and theory of value. Topics include the question of time’s existence, how our minds represent events in time, and whether it is rational to be ‘biased toward the future.’

Matt was excited about this class and shared a little about it with us. I understood what he said about how sometimes time goes by fast and sometimes it goes by slowly while the clock’s hands move by at the same measure.  An interesting philosophical consideration.

My days go by slowly.  Even the days that are full. Sluggish minutes, long hours, eternal days.  Yet the nine months have passed by in a flash. How is it possible? Philosophy and Time.

Nine months out, it’s getting better. It has to have. Emotional pain is less intense. Longer stretches of time go by without thinking about John.  My sensitivity to discomfort has changed. I’ve toughened up.   I’m accustomed to people being uncomfortable around me, not knowing what to say, and I don’t care.  My appetite has returned.  Brain function is marginally better.  I can sleep through the night unaided.  I cry easily, but not as often.

I am giving myself a year of doing and feeling whatever I want to do or to feel.  I think it’s working. Every day is difficult and every “first” is difficult.  But I’m only three months away from the “second time”.  Time is helping. But I still miss him like crazy.

The empty chair at the table feels more evident today than any other day so far.  We weren’t all together last year for Mother’s Day…Matt in Cambridge, John in Boulder, but I still got calls and texts, along with promises for a celebratory hike or adventure soon. When we were together next….

I’ve received my last Mother’s Day message from John. The four of us will not take another Mother’s Day hike. I am shattered and empty.

It’s a day that defines the context of my relationship with John.  I am his mother. He is my son…he was my son. I was his mother.  End of story.  Without me there would be no him.  Without him, Mother’s Day is a different kind of day.

By the time I celebrated my first Mother’s Day as a mother, I had survived twelve Mother’s Days without my own mother. In that window, I rationalized my despair declaring the day to be a “Hallmark Holiday”. But on MY first Mother’s Day, when we had Paul’s mom over for brunch and took photos with a chubby seven month old baby John, the day became the most important day of the year. I was a mom!

My parents, especially my mom, raised me to believe I could do anything, take on the world.  But I didn’t want to take on the world. I wanted to be a mom, though it wasn’t “cool” to say at the time.

After years of infertility issues, finally, baby John was on his way.  Everything was easy about my pregnancy and I loved being pregnant.  I almost couldn’t believe it.

Having a second boy made our family complete and we set off on our journey through life as a family.  And what adventures our family had.

I took motherhood seriously.  I stopped working when Matt was born.  I attended mothers groups, parenting classes, sibling classes.  Co-op pre-school, volunteer at the elementary school. I relished every bit of it.

Paul and I spent the week prior to this Mother’s Day at an insurance conference in Hawaii. Everything about our stay was spectacularly beautiful.  The weather, the scenery, the beach, the resort, the island in general.  Everything but the elevator.  In the framed box next to the elevator the flyer advertising the Mother’s Day brunch glared at me, making me cringe. I learned to take the stairs.

I intentionally booked our flight home on Mother’s Day. Trapped on an airplane, I could put on my headphones and pretend it’s just another day.  With the time difference, my Mother’s Day was three hours shorter.

We landed about dinner time.  I dropped Paul at the house and drove to pick up our dog, leaving Paul to organize dinner.  When I returned, the dining room table was filled with candlelight and flowers.  The two of us haven’t eaten dinner in the dining room since John died.  It’s too empty.  If he was alive, John would not have been here with us, but now, his empty chair is a massive presence.  A gasp, somewhere between surprise and a sob erupted when I saw the table set so festively, so thoughtfully.  Eyes filling with tears, Paul cried out, “You are the best mom.  You were the best mom. You deserve a Mother’s Day!” We are broken. We fall together trying to keep each other in one piece.

Beyond being sad about John dying, I’m mad. I’m so mad at him for leaving me, for leaving us.  I’m jealous too.  Jealous of my friends who get to hug their kids today.  And I’m really envious of those who have their moms AND their kids.  Dwelling on that spirals me into a pathetic mess of self-pity.  Layered onto Mothers Day is the beginning of graduation season.  John would not have graduated this year, as many of his friends are, but four years ago, as a high school senior, he had so many options, so many opportunities, so much hope surrounding him.  It’s hard not to think of what might have been if he had made different choices four years ago. Self doubt and self criticism sneaks in. What could we have done differently to change his path? Did we make critical mistakes?

I feel like I failed at motherhood.  I worked so hard at it, and it didn’t turn out like I wanted it to.  I want to kick the wall.  I want to scream and say it isn’t fair.  I want to shake my fist at the sky and say “Why did this happen to me, to us, to John?”  I want to rewind the world, go back in time and fix it, change it.  I want a re-do.

Motherhood is precious.  I’ve always known it,  but not the way I know it now.  If you’ve got it, celebrate it.  Big time. It’s not a Hallmark holiday. It’s definitely worth a celebration.

We are at an insurance conference in Hawaii.  It is beautiful here.  While Paul is in his seminars, my days are full of relaxation, yoga and hiking.  But the real reason we are here is business, which also means a calendar full of cocktail parties and company dinners.  Those have been tough. Small talk used to be intuitive and comfortable for me, but now it’s awkward and scary. I don’t want to be asked about my family.

Quickly I develop a survival strategy.  I’ve reinvented myself as the most interested woman at this insurance conference.  Former opening lines have been discarded. Now, I immediately take control of the conversation, steering it far, far away from the subject of kids. I ask people about themselves before they can ask anything of me. I make them believe they are the most fascinating people in the world. I let them talk on and on about themselves.  Anything to keep them from asking me the dreaded question.  Unfortunately it’s not full proof.

The first time, standing at tall cocktail tables overlooking a particularly scenic stretch of beach.  Turquoise sea with wind chattering the palm fronds above.  Our host’s wife strolled over and opened with “So, tell me about yourselves?  Do you have any kids?”  I took a deep breath, apologized for my discomfort and explained that it is a challenge for us to answer that question, because we recently lost a son and we don’t know how to answer.  It happened quickly. Like a murderer lurking in a dark ally, a knife went swiftly into her heart and the the tears began to fall.  First for her, then for me.  “I’m so sorry. I can’t imagine” she says.

That didn’t go well, so I amended my answer the next day when I was asked the same question by a darling young couple at dinner.  He, a young executive in our host’s firm.  She, a young mother, familiar in her focus, taking her motherhood job thoughtfully; obsessing over the details.

“One, I said. Just one!’ mustering as chipper and enthusiastic a reply as I could.

She beamed.  “Us too!  One and done?!”  “How hard was it for you to decide to just have one?”

“Um, not that hard.  It just sort of happened that way.”  I kept smiling, tossing a decoy that maybe she would think it was an infertility issue and she should move on. She did, but this time to a million questions about Matthew.

“Where is he in school?”

“Um, at MIT” (when in truth he has taken the year off and is in South America sorting through the life changing experience of loosing his brother before he returns to an academic pressure cooker)

“What a great school!  How did you get him interested in academics?”

“Um, he was an inquisitive guy from the very start.” (Amending the part that the two boys just came out with their distinct interests and abilities)  I try to get her to talk more about her boy, but she’s focused our story; our shared experience of parenting one son.

“How did he deal with the horrible winter they had back east this year?”

“Um, well, it sure is an adjustment from California weather!”  My answer is cheerful and vague. (He withdrew at the end of September and spent the seven weeks in the tropical weather of Southeast Asia, never once needing snow boots)

On and on the questions come.  I deflect, I smile, I try my best to change the subject, to shift the focus to her and her cherished only son.  With each answer comes an increasingly oppressive realization that I am a liar.  I am weaving a tale.  I am altering history.  I am a fraud. I feel psychotic.

That night I wake in a panic. I lie in bed, now fully awake thinking about last night’s conversation. What if I am discovered? I don’t want to be discovered for what I am, a psychotic lying fraud.

Now I have to remember to whom I’ve told what.  One son, two sons, dead son, son in South America.  What is true and what isn’t?  No more cocktails for me.  I’ve got to keep it all straight. I’m protecting strangers from the truth so they don’t cry at a business cocktail party.  I am lying so others can enjoy the off site business conference that is so well deserved. No one deserves to be brought to tears by asking a normal question, especially on vacation in Hawaii.

Another day, another party. A tall, leggy young woman with long, straight hair is standing at the cocktail table adjacent to ours.  There is something Shelby-like about her.  A guy about Paul’s age wearing a Dartmouth Hockey cap welcomes another couple to their table.  I’m barely in earshot but I hear him introduce the arriving pair.  “This is my son’s girlfriend, and you know my son.”  The son is tall, athletic build, dark haired, handsome.  When we pass by I glance at his name tag. “John” it reads.  I wish that by making up stories, I could make up the story that we were here with our son John and his girlfriend.  I wish that I could make up a story and have it be true. I wish it wasn’t this hard.

April 8, 20015.  I got John’s iPod last night.  It was wrapped up with a note from a friend who got it from her friend, who got it from her son who was John’s room mate.  I wonder now if there was more of a story about how it got from him to me.  I’m glad to have it.  Really glad.

Slipping it out of the envelope, its heft a weighted gem. The Hope Diamond to me. Seventh generation iPod classic, circa 2009. The screen is marred and its chromed, stainless steel back is textured with scratches.  I’ve never had an iPod, and it feels awkward, uncomfortable in my grasp.  I’m not sure how to use it, to access its contents.  It’s an Apple product; intuitive, and I quickly figure it out.  20,350 songs.  A lifetime worth of songs.

Riches. A window into John’s life.  A direct line to him.  I am almost sick with anticipation about being able to access what was his.  What he loved.  What moved him and touched his soul.  20,350 insights into him.

I scroll to “songs”.  They are listed alphabetically.  First up, “A-Team” By Ed Sheeran.  One word, one note sung and I’m transported to another place, another time when I’ve heard his voice and I’m with John.  The music is whirling around me.  I’m whirling around it.  Spun in a haze with John and Ed Sheeran.  It was another Ed Sheeran song that was sung at John’s memorial in December.  But I’m here now with these lyrics. They slam into me.

“It’s too cold outside, For angels to fly, Angels to fly

To fly, fly
For angels to fly, to fly, to fly
For angels to die”

I don’t want to hear that song, those lyrics. I click to the next song.

Alphabetically the next song is A.D.D. by XY, but I decide I don’t want to go through his iPod methodically, systematically, alphabetically, so I rotate to “Shuffle”, thinking that John might somehow pick the songs for me.

The iPod selects Miles Davis for me.  “Bitches Brew”. 26.59 minutes. Provocative. Extraordinary. The music shifts and changes; transforming as it continues.  Increasingly free form, free spirited.  When did John put this on the iPod?  How many times did he listen to it?  How was he moved by it?  What did he like about it?

Next up, “Please Don’t Go” by Manchester Orchestra.  Three strums and I’m hooked.  I love the song. It’s a combination of genres.  The lead vocalist’s voice has a comfortable familiarity, and then the lyrics….

“realizing that he didn’t need her as much

as he needed fixing again
wasn’t half as hard as he thought it was gonna be
well at least you’re being honest
don’t go
but you never listen
do you
don’t go
just go
don’t go”

Click. Meatloaf – “You took the words right out of my mouth”

Click. Bob Dylan – “Most likely you’ll go your way and I’ll go mine” (live version)

Click. Elvis Prsley – “Blue Moon”

Click. Tech N9ne – “Facepaint”

Click. Pink Floyd – Wot’s Uh The Deal”

Each song so different from the previous.

Suddenly I’m 14 years old.  I’m in a record store wandering the isles, with infinite genres at my fingertips.  Rap. Latin. Techno. Pop. Reggae. Blues. Zydeco, Acoustic, Dubstep, DJ mix, Electric Folk, Electro House, Funk, Gangsta, Garage. Gospel, Grime, Grunge.  Hip-hop, Indie.

I get to the row labeled “M”.  Mac Dre, Madonna, Marshall Tucker Band, Marvin Gaye, Michel Jackson, Miranda Lambert, Moby Grape, Mozart….

It’s all here.

I listen and I’m with John.

It’s Easter sunday and I’m alone (by choice, not for any lack of invitations from thoughtful friends).  Matt is in Valparaiso, Chile.  Paul is on his way to the Masters Golf Tournament.

I was raised celebrating Spring more than celebrating Easter. A simple celebration of nature’s rebirth. Ramos fizzes, eggs Benedict, grilled lamb and asparagus.  A hike in green hills specked with wildflowers.  As a parent, it summons memories struggling to fit plastic eggs together at 1:00 AM. Shoving Paul out of bed, pre-dawn, to “hop” around the garden.  In theory, I shouldn’t mind that I’m here alone.

My thoughts accompany me through my empty house and my empty day.  I think of what might have been if John were alive.  Matt would be at school in Massachusetts. I absolutely would have insisted that Paul take this “bucket list” trip.  If John were alive, would I have traveled to Boulder to spend time with him?  Probably not.  Convincing myself that I would see him soon enough.  Maybe June for Father’s Day at Lake Combie.  That would be soon enough.

But my resume of loss has been newly updated and if I knew now….I’d be on the first plane.

Shelby’s visit home over the past few days, accompanied by the news of Mackenzie’s engagement, add to my wondering.  What kind of love would have accompanied John on his life’s journey?  What gifts might have come with that love?

Settling into the rest of my life without John I’m left with observations that prompt these questions.  As I make plans to attend his friend’s graduations I wonder when he would have graduated.    Would he have learned to temper his emotions?  Control his impulses?  Make better choices?  Make different choices? Work a little harder?  Believe in himself? Would he have provided the next generation of Easter baskets accompanied by sticky kisses?

By dying young, he can be whatever I imagine.  I like to imagine him as a ski patroller by winter’s day and a bartender by winter’s night.  A wilderness fire and rescue guy in the summer.  24 on and 72 off.  Off-days spent fixing up houses and managing properties.  Barbequing, playing softball, coaching a kid’s flag football team.  Friends over.  Laughter.  Love.

Only dreams.