We Cannot Own. We Can Care For.

The Peace Pond received that Magnolia Tree in 2005. I planted it. Nurtured it. Cried under it. Prayed under it. Read under it. In 2010 the tree, the pond, the gardens, the house were turned over to the people who care for them today. Today I see the tree, the pond, the gardens, the house are happy and healthy. I did my part someone else took it further. I'm grateful someone cares for what mattered to me.

Emma graduates from high school in 3 and a half hours. She invited me to the event....even snatched a ticket for me to get into the gym. A guy I met in 2005 is her father. I knew him well enough to know how much he loved his only daughter. He passed away in 2006.  In 2009 my life and Emma's connected. We formed a tiny bond over Zanzibar chocolate from the Chocolate Shoppe. To that bond we added bands of strength, tempered by happiness and sorrow. On the day of her graduation, the bond is unbreakable. I'm grateful when given the chance to care for a precious being, I was able to be the man in Emma's life when she most needed a dad. I never attempted to replace her dad. In fact, I made sure he was remembered and honored.  Emma's not my daughter. She's  forever my girl.

Nurtured the tree person grew tall and strong. So did the girl person. Love having cared for these gifts from God.

Remarkable

There are graduation parties and then there are graduation celebrations.

When Aaron was young the neighborhood was filled with his friends all on course to graduate in June 2005. For years our families talked about what would be a neighborhood graduation party for these kids who were closest friends. When the party day arrived, I was home with a broken heart. The happy sounds coming from the neighbor's parties ripped emotions through me. Grief included sadness, guilt for not being happy for the other families, shame, jealousy, envy, resentment, self pity. I did stop in at 3 parties, managed to be graceful, and left each more broken than before.  I tried to keep two boxes of tissues in my car that summer and still I'd have only my shirt tail to sob into.

Yesterday, the guys at Aaron's House held a graduation celebration. One of the guys graduated from the UW. A biochemistry major, now employed as an assistant scientist in his field of study. In the midst of his friends, family, and housemates, I felt the remarkable peace of a meaningful celebration of life. Four of the five student residents of Aaron's House were on hand for the celebration. The fifth was at home for a family obligation----right where he is supposed to be. Remarkable.  The gratitude of the parents and family members fills my heart with gladness. The laughter and banter of the young people washes away the memories of those unforgettable days; days which are important for the motivation they inspired.

This morning I know how remarkable peer support in a home environment is for young people in college and in recovery. I saw it, heard, felt it, touched it. Everything does not happen for a reason, but every good thing comes from good people being remarkable in giving something to another person. For eleven years I've been feeling one arm empty. Not anymore. My arms are remarkably full.

Aaron's House. A place where guys in recovery get well and get smart in college. Peace to all of the families who have been remarkable since 2007.

I Will Let You Go...Just don't leave

Let us pause in life's pleasures and count its many tears. Hard Times. Johnny Cash.

In messages to friends, he signed his name, Aaron...Good Times. When drugs entered his life in 2003, he wrote on his bookshelf: Good Times. Hard Times. Bad Times. Sad Times. I fought the drug culture that summer,  and the culture won....then.  We were losing Aaron and we would not let him go. Imagine fighting evil for the soul of your child. You can't see it, the drug culture is shrouded in darkness. Your fight is with the wind blowing from every direction. Who is the enemy? The friends? The school? The police? My son? Even me.

It's 11:09 AM ten years since that May 10th day in 2005. I recall the events of the morning too clearly.  At 9:40 AM the teacher at Horizon High School, enforcing the fatally flawed relapse policy, told Aaron that first hour was finished and it was time for him to leave the school grounds. Aaron was having fun with his peers...a peer support program works that way, together never alone.  Aaron I'm told replied, "But I'm not ready to leave."  No. My son was not ready to leave. He followed the agreement.  Aaron drove his black GMC Sonoma home.  At home he sat down with a whole coconut cream pie Cathy had made for his birthday. His phone was plugged into a charger. Aaron joined in on some world wide video game. (Video gaming in the daytime wasn't the agreement) He played until his phone range a few minutes after noon. A 19 year old friend who had done jail time for dealing Oxy asked for a ride to a job interview. His mother declined to do the job, his grandma was busy. The video game was paused. Aaron was coming back; he wasn't leaving.

One neighbor saw Aaron in our front yard at 12:09. Aaron was talking on his phone, walking, and smiling. Our next door neighbor saw him drive out..probably 12:12. Aaron drove 2.8 miles from home, traveling west on Vinburn Road. At 12:17, the owner of the concrete wall, holding mulch for sale, 20 feet from the road, said Aaron had a pulse. And then he was gone. For 2 hours we knew nothing of what was happening in that ditch. I even left a message on Aaron's phone around 1:00...he was healthy, happy, alive as far as I knew.

It's less than an hour until ten years ends and the eleventh begins. Aaron, I will let you go, just promise you won't leave. Oh hard times come again no more. Many days you have lingered...around my door. From middle school on Aaron kept a notebook of sayings he found interesting. I don't know if last words were included, but I know he'd love for his last words to his friends at school be recorded, remembered. Smiled about. "But I'm not ready to leave." 

The Smoke of The Fire

May 3. Seven days remain. These are some of the last days of April and May 2005. Ten years of holding Aaron tight during the Ten Days of May. Trying to stop the clock, find the crease in the universe to slip around 5/10/05, and come out safe on the other side of darkness.

Weeks after Aaron died I had a dream that Cathy, Patrick, Aaron, and I were on an open air deck off of a big building. We were each talking quickly at Aaron, the way you do when you have much to say and too little time. I wrapped my arms around him. I could actually feel his broad shoulders and muscles in his back the way I did on 5/8/05. He filled my arms.  We were telling Aaron to stay.  He told us "I've got to go now." I held tighter. Aaron became long, slim, and white. His upper body was way above my head. My arms went empty, holding only a wisp of white haze as Aaron rose into the sky. I cried myself awake.

I've got a tight grip on Aaron this week and I know he's going to slip away, right through my fingers. The crease will stay closed. My arms will hold only the smoke of the fire.

The photo of the house is significant. I took that picture at 10/30 AM on 5/10/05. The leaves on the trees, the light blue sky, and less than 2 hours left in Aaron's life. In life as it was, as it could be.