Category: loss

Little Girl, Little Girl

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Little girl little girl where have you gone?

Yesterday you were a laughing child twinkling eyes filled with laughter, and tumbling curls, flowing after.

In a dress of Pink and white, flowers all around. Baby dolls and little bikes, falling on the ground. Tears, and scrapes, band aids and drinks. Hugs and kisses, our hearts linked.

Little girl, growing up fast, with your girlfriends running past. Trying lipstick, high heels and dresses. Fixing hair, and polishing nails all attitude and tossing tresses.

France

One day the little girl was all gone, and there you stood. A woman grown all on your own. Eyes all aglow, in love with life.

Some times though I see, in your smile and twinkling eyes, that little girl with tumbled curls whose laughter filled the skies

Little girl little girl, where have I gone? “No where, look in your heart Where memories go on, and love never dies. There, your little girl lies.”

Grannie’s Hands

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Her hands lie upon her stomach quiet and still. Telling, in their scared wrinkles, the story of a lifetime.

As a child her plump dimpled hands clung to her mother’s. They were, at times, covered with mud, sticky sweets, and all of the mess and mire of childhood. When she was a young woman, her hands were thin and lovely, yet strong enough to cope with the life she anticipated as the wife of a farmer. Those hands were adorned with a simple gold band, and, in time, held each of her newborn children.

They scrubbed, cooked, cleaned, and washed for her family. They comforted the ill, held the weary, and buried the dead. They were scared by fire, cut by life, and calloused by work. But to me, they were simply Grannie’s Hands.

I remember how they touched my face, braided my hair, and tied my shoes. I remember watching them as they sewed on buttons, kneaded bread dough, and planted flowers. They gently held my hands as I learned how to measure sugar for vanilla cookies, cried out my hurt feelings and fears, and poured out my heart when I fell in love. I remember Grannie’s hands reaching out to hold my first baby, and watching as she touched the face of her great great grandchild.

Her hands passed down instruction, discipline, talent, love, comfort, and compassion to four generations, and now, on her death bed, they are still.

But  as long as I live, I will remember Grannies hands.

 

Waiting

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Sitting outside the open door to the dance hall, listening to romantic music drift by with quiet chatter and occasional laughter reminded her of falling in love. The gentle rocking of the ship as it pushed through the dark sea, brought back all the memories of being held in his arms as they watched the moon set when they sailed away on their honeymoon so many years ago. Occasionally couples would wander by holding hands or arm in arm, and one woman did a slow dance alone on the Lido. It was hard to be alone after so many years as part of a duo. At her age, it was expected that she would have lost her beloved husband. In some ways it had not seemed real until she found herself alone on the ship in the middle of the Caribbean sea.

The holiday was a gift from her children. It was meant to cheer her up after a long cold winter. Her best friend came along to keep her company. They were just two old ladies in a crowd of people. During the day, it was easy to stay busy with all the events on board. It was at night, when the soft, warm breeze blew across the deck and the stars seemed close enough to touch in the dark sky, she felt the shiver of loneliness pass through her heart. From the corner of her eye she could see him, standing so tall and handsome in his tuxedo, a cigarette in his hand as they stood at the railing of the ship watching the moonlight mark the way across the sea. Then, when she turned, she only saw the emptiness.

They met during a party at her best friend’s home when she was barely eighteen. He was just home from the Viet Nam war, wearing a regulation hair cut and an attitude. She knew he was only a few years older than she was, but he seemed so much more mature than the silly boys around them. When he looked at her with deep brown eyes that seemed filled with pain, then smiled at her, she forgot how to speak. Something in her whispered, “He’s the ONE.” They skipped out on the party and walked around the block a time or two, barely talking. After what seemed an eternity, he took her hand. It was a perfect fit, and with that simple gesture, she knew he was her future.

It was summer when they met. They joined in with the rest of their crowd of friends swimming at the beach, hanging out at the park, attending parties. It seemed to be the last days of innocence in their world. The music they listened to was changing, and so were a number of their friends. In their world, you married, had children, and grew old together. Suddenly, it was acceptable to sleep around, do drugs, and protest everything. But, that last summer, when things were still young and hopeful, they fell in love.

Romance was magical to her. A quiet, bookish girl, all she knew about it was what she had read, and what her imagination conjured up as lay awake thinking of his kisses and the deep yearning she had when he held her close. When he laughed at her silly jokes, listened to her opine on things she barely understood, or let her cry when they watched a sad movie without complaint or embarrassment, she felt like a queen. He was always tender with her, even the few times they argued. His gentleness only made her love him more every day.

That never changed, in all the years they were together. Good or bad, she loved him more every day. There were tragedies, triumphs, tears, and tantrums, but through it all, he was always careful with her feelings and with her body. When they were busy parents, he would remember all the important days, and sometimes, for no reason, would bring her flowers or a gift. And they would dance on summer nights like they had as young lovers.

Like all couples, they grew apart and back together, depending on life, kids, and stresses. Never did she doubt that he loved her, though there was that time when he was tempted by someone else. He never knew she knew, but he walked away and came home to his own bed without dishonoring either of them. As they aged, and the children left home, they rediscovered the joy of being a couple. Once again, they were able to sail on a ship like they had on their honeymoon. It became their practice to take a trip somewhere once a year. They cruised the oceans and seas of the world, delighting in the travel, the company, and always they danced in the summer nights.

One night, he woke her because he felt ill. Before the ambulance arrived, he was gone. That quickly she went from wife to widow. It was over. She stood at his grave, mind numbed and lost. As always, he took care of her, making sure she was set for life. No worries about money or where she would live, meant she had time to make choices for the rest of her life. What no one seemed to understand was that without him, she was so lost she couldn’t make decisions at all. Her heart simply wasn’t involved in anything she tried. She moped about her home, remembering him in every crook and cranny. Her sentences often began with “remember when” only to realize he wasn’t there to remember with.

So, her children gave her a cruise as a surprise gift and sent along her best friend as company to get her out of the house. She suspected they were painting and reorganizing it as another surprise in an attempt to get her to move along in her life. She knew they didn’t understand no matter what they did, he would always be with her, where she could just barely see him out of the corner of her eye. A summer breeze, the gentle rocking of the ship, romantic music, and couples holding hands would always bring him to her mind and heart. And just out of sight, he waited for her, standing tall in his tux, leaning against the rail, smoking his cigarette in the moonlight.

Same time every year.

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My son, always the adventurer, poet, free spirit.
My son, always the adventurer, poet, free spirit.

Every year the black days roll around. They drag me down into a bog of depression, sucking me under, dragging me into the lair of darkness, designed to suffocate every nuance of joy, drown every moment of peace. You would think after nearly 13 years, it wouldn’t be so difficult, and that I would be able to cope better than I do. I know that, in my brain, I am aware that the days are coming, I try to fight the darkness, I try to stay strong and overcome the feelings that slowly overwhelm me. But, like a cloud obscuring the sun before a storm strikes, the emotional storm drowns me.

I know it is useless to let the depression take over. During the dark days, that usually last a week or so, I am physically and emotionally exhausted. I become inconsolable in my sorrow, and prickly in my communication to everyone. At times I feel catatonic and others manic as I relive the anguish of losing my son. My bright, difficult, passionate son was murdered – gone in a millisecond. Taken by a madman in a flash of gunfire, he fell in a pool of blood and brains onto a cold kitchen floor. Days later he lay cold and still in a casket as his family and friends attended his funeral, and we buried him in the cold red clay of Oklahoma. It was a beautiful winter’s day, but my sorrow knew that spring would never really come again for my heart.

So, now that the years have passed, I keep thinking I should be able to cope better. His birthday is September 11th. So many others have reason to be sad on that day because they lost loved ones. I am sad on that day because it was the day of birth for my son. More than the anniversary of the day he died, his day of birth causes me to mourn his loss. I don’t know why that is, I wish I did so I could let go and move forward. I do try to do something honor his life that day. I write him a letter, or I work on his memory book, I have even had a birthday party for him, but the sorrow still drains all the joy out of me.

This year was particularly bad. I went to bed for three days and only got up when I had to take care of my family. I cried a great deal, but mostly I lay there and thought about my son. I remembered every moment of his life from birth to death. I even went over the awful years of his teens when he was so angry and violent. I tried to think of everything I could remember about his likes and dislikes, all the funny stories of his childhood, everything he told me about himself. I read all his letters that he sent to us over the years, and went through his school papers and awards. The last thing I did was to read both his birth and death certificates. I know, a glutton for punishment. Those two documents are the proof that he did live, and that he died – but the important part is the life he lived in between them.

When I think of him, I think of him as a young man holding his baby girl and telling me that she was the whole purpose for his life my heart softens. I hear his voice telling me he loved me and wishing me a Merry Christmas the last time I spoke to him. I see him playing soccer as a little boy, with a big cheeky grin on his face after making a difficult goal – and as a Cub Scout winning an award. I remember a small boy telling me he can dress himself – even if he got his shirt on backwards and his shoes on the wrong feet. As a baby he was the most determined child I have ever seen. And through all the memories, I relive the love I still have for my first born. All the wishes, dreams, plans, and desires I had for his future and his success a a person came flooding back. And the sorrow that he didn’t get to live past the age of twenty-one morphs into anger. The childish cry, “It’s NOT FAIR,” wafts through my mind.

No it isn’t fair for a young man to be brought down in the best days of his life. But he wouldn’t think it was unfair. Not him. Life was always about an adventure, and when it got boring, he would find a way to make it exciting. Dying, for him, was just another adventure. Although, I am sure he didn’t want to leave his baby girl, or his family and friends, I am equally sure that he couldn’t wait to see what waited for him next. Though, he may not have been a very religious man in the traditional way, he always believed there was something more beyond this life. I can see in my minds eye his cheeky grin and bright brown eyes filled with curiosity and wonder as he took on a new way of life. That’s my boy – forging on ahead, no hold barred, into a new existence. Sigh, I miss him so much.

Now it is time to swim my way out of the bog of darkness and press on with this life. The sorrow clings to me every day like whispers of fog floating around me. But the sun does come out and it burns the fog away more day by day. Until next year. I don’t think a mother who loses a child, no matter how old or young that child may be, ever learns to ‘get over it,’ but eventually we do learn to live through it. Even if it means staying in bed in abject sorrow for three days every year.

Tomorrow the sun will peek through my darkness a bit more, and maybe by next week I will be back to normal, but I still miss my boy, and I guess until I join him and he gets to be my guide on the other side of life, I always will.