Coursing
The day dawns,
the one rued,
the turning of the wheel;
A final heaving sigh.
December 26, 2018
Dear Ian,
At the cusp of this odd day is this odd thought....
You loved an scavenger hunt; you loved Easter and Advent....the pickle on the Christmas tree....even Hangman games where you earned a letter for doing chores. You couldn't pace yourself....your brother and sister gave up as you cleaned the entire house to win the letters and scoured the freshly decorated tree to find the glass pickle everyone had already surrendered to you. Relentless, joyful, determined....if you were a young lion, heaven knows you would feed your pride (except that you might bring that antelope home and convince your people to bring her into the fold instead).
In a more macabre way, I've been on a scavenger hunt of my own for the last year. For one whole turning of the dial, I have been trying to grab up any clue that I could; tiny bits of you. Tiny hints and postcards from you. Material and earthly proof that you still hum and vibrate with some kind of life. I look.
Little bits of magic, bits of hope
Bits of you, bits of us. Colored Ribbons, my love.
Honey, in my raging grief, I pay attention because I don't want to miss one single message from you. A lifetime spent practicing my third eye has been a help. I force my eyes open, even when I don't want to; lifting my chin toward a warm moment of sun, even when all I really want to do is tuck my head under my wing and die.
On this anniversary of your leaving, the sky raised her hackles and began to complain. Grey and blustery, wind coming in all directions at once. Misty droplets, then sheets of rain, and then breaks of plain grey sky. Wind. The kind that that whirls and spins, transforming entire fields of tall grass into a living lion's mane. Aunt Nita and I went south driving right through it.
That straight road to the coast you and I and your family have driven so many times.
Instead of my darling blonde boy, curled up in a blanket in the back seat, I brought my grief and binocs along instead. We all loaded up to see where we could go; see what we could see....scavenger hunting. The weather spoke.
To say God was giving voice to my grief is an understatement. It was as if all that makes up this Earth was solemnly removing hats and bowing heads. Wind gusts as hymns of remembrance of your life lived.....your life over....gone. As strong and real as another funeral viewing.
Clouds in violent motion, not stuck still in the sky, but boiling and coursing. More A dirge across the face of this day than a funeral. This day 365....more than a year since I last touched you.....
You told Elijah that I should "Hang stockings and celebrate Christmas, Mom, then grieve for me on the 26th."
Mainly, I just drove and watched. Scavenger hunting, coursing myself. Memories stabbing but calmed by the dark and rowdy agreement from nature that this is the shit....No sun or hope or syrupy promises of renewal. Fuck no. Fuck that...Just weeping and sobbing from the wind. Such a sweet testament of the loss of such love. I did see so many other things, Osprey and birds and an occasional moth. I felt you there, as I knew I would.
Then between 4 and 5pm, my sister and I opened a beer and sat facing the Mother of lagoons, and watched the grey gauze of cirrus move swiftly over the still bay. Behind the clouds, shocking moments of the brightest french vanilla-colored sunlight, just before it set. And with it, an unblemished bright blue sky peaking through. Astonishing but not surprising.
Sun punched through at the very hour one year ago, when your precious blood spilled out and that fine, solid mind and beautiful heart slowed and slowed and slowed. And stopped. I was not there when your heart stopped, but I am now.
The sun knew, the grass and thorn thicket too; the murmuring of Chacalaca ceased their noise for a few seconds. Wind shadows moved across the water giving form and fingerprint. I didn't see angels weeping or God's hands stretching wide in a giant " amen", but I did feel every bit of the wind, I saw every particle of light, in all the colors offered. I finished the hunt on this sad ceremonial day and I never looked away.
And I never will. This little courage I offer is for you, my baby.
I love you,
Momma
No comments:
Post a Comment