Ten Years Paying the Toll to the Troll

Too few photos exist from 10 years ago. These were all taken April 2, '05 or later up to about May 6, '05. O.A.R. songs were often heard in our house when Aaron was home. "I just want to make you laugh, I just want to see that smile. Babe we're only here for a little while...I want peace."

Unacceptable conditions inspire people to demand an end to insanity. Some insanity can't be changed. Every hour grief requires  acceptance of the unacceptable. Acceptance yesterday, or this morning,  doesn't do it for now...right this minute. For those who see that as not accepting, as I see it, there is nothing but this moment. We can not accept what is in this moment for a feeling that will be in a future moment.  

In the first months of this journey I spoke to a man who's daughter had died. How long ago? I asked. Two years, said the dad. I swallowed hard and cried at the thought of living with this for TWO YEARS. Maybe I've been walking for ten years to get to the end or to get away from the sorrow of the start. It's always there either tagging along or standing in the way blocking the ahead. I'm pretty sure I am looking for something. I want to find you.

A video exists of a very young Aaron telling the story of the Troll and The Bridge to two kids younger than him. He learned that story from me. Because it included a scary Troll and danger Aaron loved the story. He also loved the story I made up of The Man in Black. Unknown danger. That man waited in the dark shadows of a train station. You could not board without facing The Man in Black and his intentions. The anniversary is the Troll, The Man in Black.The next year is the bridge, the train. The Troll won't let me pass without paying the toll. The Man in Black won't let me board. It's out there...that Ten Years. The image makes my jaw tense. They're just feelings. They're not real. Feeling the winter sun through my window is real.

Normal Wear and Tear

There is no protective finish against tears. 

Tears cut through hearts, defenses, and time. Wood stain can only dissolve in a pool of tears. Built  during World War II for government offices, these heavy desks processed the words, numbers, and letters of war. They retired to private offices in the 50's. By the 80's they were being saved from junk and restored. This one  arrived as a wedding gift in 1984, saved from a junk heap. The finish was deep, dark walnut. The entire desk had heavy drawers, solid legs; it weighed a ton. I know that because I moved it five times before the day of dismemberment. The top had to be saved; it held the scars of normal wear and tear and more.

Patrick has my first baseball bat vintage 1965. Mickey Mantel engraved, all wood, slim handle, built for a little boy. A baseball bat gets grass stained on the handle end and barrel from being flipped, tossed, and dropped as the batter sprints to first base. The handles preserves the DNA of all the boys, and the occasional girl, who swung for the fences of the backyard. It's the barrel that holds the images of deeper memories. The impressions of struck stones left their mark. They remind me of challenges to hit a rock further than a friend. Along with the tick of striking the rock, I still hear the reprimands of dads: "Hey, you two! That bat's not for hitting rocks. You're going to damage it." I've forgotten the days but the memories of the instants are as clear as the dents. I remember knocking that rock into the neighbor's field and admiring the chunk that rock left on the bat. That bat is not damaged by normal wear and tear. Baseballs and rocks are normal objects for a kid to crush with his bat.

I know the meaning of wear and tear. It's the "normal" that perplexes me. Deep, dark walnut stain faded to tan over the last ten years. Scratches, gauges, pokes, and spills of coffee, tea, water, and tears are the reminders of what wore and tore me as I wrote the bulk of this blog starting May 8, 2005. I would change everything about the two days that followed. This blog could have continued as a review of books. Somebody else could have recorded their journey of grief.  I'd never change the reminders of that time when rocks of pain were crushing me and leaving their mark on my heart and desk. I'll never refinish this desk; it's finished with the stain of abnormal wear and tear.