A Mother’s Journey, Year One

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A Dead Duck 

Whistler’s Mother dead on grass.

A gentle cool breeze

silently moves feathers on

her broken neck.

A New Year’s omen?

(January 1, 2022)

The Tree

It was a beautiful, cool, early summer morning, in Portland Oregon.

He stood, in the yard, his favorite place

looking at the back of the little yellow house

where his beloved still slept.

He saw, the now hollow trench of dirt

where every year hundreds of sunflowers were planted

row, behind row, behind row, behind row.

Under your canopy of damp shade and sweet-smelling pine

did you open your arms to him,

providing comfort friends and loved ones were unable to give?

Just one step, and all was quiet.

The cacophony of chaos in his racing mind, now silenced

as he gently swayed in the breeze.

I ask you, please:

Was he frightened or resolute?

Was it painless, was it quick?

Was he sad, did he cry?

What were his last thoughts?

Only you know.

(July 11, 2022)

Numb

Now numb to the world,

my son is dead by hanging.

Life moves - I cannot.

(July 12, 2022)

The Box

Cuddling around

the black plastic box of ash,

I sleep with my son.

(July 17, 2022)

Grateful

It is strange how grief changes one’s thinking.

I am now grateful that:

I had you in my life for 35 years, not for only 25 or 15 or 5,

you stubbornly lived your life as you wanted,

you did not just disappear, your body never to be found, the “Why? How? never answered,

you had a choice in how you died, that you were not kidnapped or murdered,

your choice of death was, relatively, non-violent, and painless,

you no longer are living with your god-awful paranoic fears,

your mind is finally quiet.

I am grateful that:

you knew my love for you was never ending and unconditional,

you let it be known how deeply you loved your brother and me,

you let it be known how proud you were to have me as your “MaMa”,

you had Mia in your life, if only for a short while.

I am grateful that:

I did not know your last visit would be your last visit, as I could never have let you go.

(July 25, 2022)

Your Gift in May

Did you know this would be the last time 

you would see me and your brother, we would walk on a beach together, watch the sunset, share a meal, stories, laughs, a long hug?

Was the little sunflower your brother later found at the bridge, from you?

You had a new numbness about you with only glimpses of “the old Ben”. We thought it was the medication.

Was our last conversation your way of protecting us from this god-awful pain? 

“Just in case…” So obvious now…

Had we known, our group hug would have been impossible to end.

You would not let me come into the airport. Did you know that would be our final goodbye? 

Would my waves and blown kisses have been too much for you to see?

I cried in the car. I knew something was wrong, but I was not expecting this. 

Or, unable to face the horror, did I unconsciously choose to ignore the signs?

How were you able to get through those four days knowing the coming finality?

Were you already in that dark vortex? Did you know it was inevitable? Had you already left us?

I am now convinced you knew.

Your final visit was your greatest gift of love to your brother and me. I thank you Benjamin, from the bottom of my soul, for the memories. 

I miss you more than I can bear.

(July 31, 2022)

Empty

Now a deep sorrow

drains me of all energy.

I miss Benjamin.

(August 19, 2022)

Gone

Sometimes the orange Subaru’s, and the sunflowers, and the butterflies, and the breeze,

just do not matter.

He is simply gone – forever.

Never will I hear his laugh or “MaMa” again.

Never will I feel the squeeze of his hugs or top-of-my-head kisses.

He is simply gone – forever. 

And I am left empty, crushed, and exhausted – to my very core.

(August 20, 2022)

Wind

A sudden brisk wind

rains down leaves, buds, and sadness.

Grief inhabits all.

(November 24, 2022)

Thanksgiving

It is Thanksgiving Day.

The best I can do now is

bittersweet and sad.

(November 24, 2022)

The Girl

She, surrounded by a sea of yellow, gold, and orange

with a child-like sense of joy and wonderment, 

stands on tippytoes to touch one special leaf.

I, now smothered by layers of sadness that envelop each day

await the return of joy in living.

(December 30, 2022)

Here

As music surrounds

your presence, always with me

but cannot be touched.

(February 4, 2023)

Progress

More good moments are here now, sometimes even days in a row, when I can feel you with me.

But I cannot touch

and I miss your hugs

and I miss your voice

and I miss your smile

and I miss our talks.

Then a wave of sadness crashes me back to shore, enveloping me in a dark gray fog, robbing all energy.

Wait for it to pass - so far, it has.

I suppose this is “progress”

(February 4, 2023)

The Body-Vessel

Death brings connection

broken, energy released.

Ben and I are one.

(February 20, 2023)

Milestones

Year One: From hysteria to unstable.

Year Two:

Can it begin as a celebration of his life, energy, humor?

Can I be surrounded by loving beings who also hurt and remember?

Or will I need to limit my energy to only his brother, his loving partner, to me?

(March 18, 2023)

Repair

My heart, ripped apart

sutured with gossamer thread,

sometimes needs repair.

(March 19, 2023)

The Word

The word LOVE, when generously given:

To family, whose decades of shared experiences and proven support cannot be replicated.

To friends who add such beauty and joy to one’s life.

To your child, from the depths of your soul you never knew could exist.

Openly, publicly, and with hope, as a solid declaration of long-term intention and commitment.

The word LOVE when widely and randomly:

Is thrown about, like spaghetti sticking to a wall, as a test of sincerity.

Is used indiscriminately by those you barely know and repeated as a response, in embarrassment, to protect.

Is intimately whispered, almost unconsciously, in the grip of an ecstatic state, to later be denied, regretted, ignored.

We need another word for LOVE, when:

Your heart has been ripped out, stomped on, is now laying in a bloody mass at your feet, and you can no longer breath.

The finality sets in, and the depth of loneliness leaves an emptiness in your bones, and you wonder how your blood can continue to circulate when there is nothing there.

The horror becomes real, but you still cannot accept that a touch, a hug, a kiss, a smell, can no longer exist.

You feel nothing but a strong, bone-marrow-chilling wind of loneliness sweeping throughout, numbing you into a collapsed heap of swirling sorrow.

The loss is so great, part of you dies too, never to be restored.

Your loved one has died, by their own hands.

(March 30, 2023)

Night Before

The vortex is here.

Its darkness brings calm resolve.

“This is it” he said.

(April 4, 2023)

Prayer for a Dead Duck

Unrestrained by body and mind

may your spirit now soar with ease, freedom, and joy,

side-by-side with my son.

(April 9, 2023)

Spring Birth

A quiet morning at dawn.

Two geese slowly walking, confused,

mother rearranging feathers on her nest,

father softly, sadly moaning.

Overnight, three eggs destroyed.

As a family of six gently float by on the calm water, in the cool breeze, of a cloudy morning.

(April 28, 2023)

A Gift

Your final visit,

the ultimate gift of love.

I know now, you knew.

(May 14, 2023)

Eleventh Month

Come, sit beside me.

A day of remembrance.

Please, reveal yourself.

(May 30, 2023)

My Hope

You went before me.

Meet me on the other side

with a smile and hug.

(May 30, 2023)

A Hat

The world feels safer wearing a hat.

Sitting, hidden, in a tree, you the observer, not the observed.

Holding thoughts and vulnerabilities inside oneself.

A mental protection for the unexplained, where creativity can freely flow.

A signal of desire for disengagement, succumbing to the calm of purposeful isolation.

You always wanted to wear a hat.

I now understand.

(June 19, 2023)

Rewoven

Tethered to my heart by a strong but flexible string,

watching proudly, as he freely discovered his own person and life.

Then he dies, by his own hands.

The string, no longer flexible, has been pulled back into my being and rewoven into a steel mesh.

He and I are now a “we”, sharing pain and joy each day.

I carry his spirit everywhere, always, until my last breath,

when we meet again and he shows me the ways of eternity.

I hope my last breath will be a chuckle and he will hear it.

(June 20, 2023)

Closing a Chapter

He died on a Thursday, one week from now.

This long chapter of horror, finally coming to a close.

What will year two be like?

Expectations will be different.

Expectations will not be met.

Faking it will need to continue.

Not wanting to “move forward” nor deal with the necessities of reality.

Craving the isolation of grief where he and I can be alone.

I do not yet know how to answer, “How are you doing?”

I wonder, will

“I am exhausted, sometimes barely existing, and always covered by a blanket of sadness”

be good enough?

(June 22, 2023)