Another Revolution

Blackbird You were only waiting for this moment to arise. Here Comes the Sun It's been a long cold lonely winter. It feels like years since it's been clear. Let It Be

I remember the serious eyes of the doctors on May 10, 1987 and sad eyes of everyone on May 10, 2005.  Trepidation, anticipation, joy, pride, and in the end, sad. 

Fourteen years ago tonight I went to sleep. Aaron was with friends a few hundred yards from our home. He'd be asleep, home safe and sound in a few hours. Peace. Content.

I remember his laugh and yet I can't recall it. I remember his little boy voice was full of enthusiasm and anticipation. If only reality could have met his imagination.  For only a few days he had an eighteen year old voice. Calm. Chill is the word he used. I can almost hear that voice. It's out there just a little ways out of reach.  I strain to hear.   My jaw is so tense.

Its a bullet train bearing down on me. I see it, hear it, feel it. It's out there and coming. I've been here so many times before. No matter what happens in the 12 months between appearances, when the engine is due, there I am standing at the station. The train never stops. It never slows, it has a place to go. Hell if I know where it goes. It just goes. Around and around. A revolution a year. This silver train will blow by me tomorrow afternoon. I'll see it fade to white. 

Maybe the train is the phone call. "Are you Aaron Meyer's dad?" Don't answer. Don't answer. Hang up.  Let it go.  Unbelievable. It's been 14 years and here I am. Writing in the same blog. The one I've tried and failed to quit. Tears. Snot. Head pounding. Teeth clenched.  Older, no less sad. Heartache, Grief never ends. The moments of reprieve grow wider.

With the sun setting behind me, the Cadillac turned the corner and disappeared with my son behind the church. When there's nothing more to see, and only the red tail lights, and vanishing car in my brain, I turned and walked into forever. Keep walking.

There are no stories with happy endings, unless you stop telling the story before the ending.

An Imaginary Friend. The Grief Shadow.

What's a blog and how do you make one?  Fourteen years ago about now, I heard of blogging and knew nothing about blogs. One way to learn is to read about blogging; the other is to blog. I read a little and switched to learn by doing. Book reviews was going to be my topic. Seemed like a way to combine something I did with something I wanted to improve (writing) with something I wanted to learn (blogging).

At  9:20 PM on May 8, 2005 I was learning to blog by writing about my son Aaron.  The last words I remember him saying was "Next season!? What? We just started watching!"  The season finale of Desperate Housewives was wrapping up. Television shows have seasons was a concept Aaron had never considered, but he knew waiting.  As a child Aaron despised "To Be ConTENued". Before he could read he knew To Be Continued meant Dark Wing Duck's life would hang in the balance and keep him wondering. Indefinitely.  I smiled.

The post I wrote while Aaron, his mom, and brother were being left cliff hanging by Terri Hatcher and Eva Longoria, was A Son Turns 18.  The thoughts I had that evening made the most peaceful, hopeful, positively certain of good things, grateful, forgiving attitude I ever remember.  And, this too shall pass.

Early in the morning...maybe 12:30 or 1:00 AM May 11, 2005 I picked myself up off of the floor and wrote my next blog post. It's titled A Son Goes to Heaven. On my desk sat Aaron's resume; the one he had printed that morning and left on the printer. Hope, peace, optimism vanished. I couldn't stop the tears.

Instead of reviewing books, my blog became a review of the grief journey. Thoughts, perspectives, memories that hurt, anger, frustration, resentment, and even gratitude came out of my head. No editing. Just as it hurt.  Fourteen years. I just commented to my wife that eighteen years of memories is reduced to dots of happy thoughts, and dashes of regrets.  Fortunately the dots fade a little less than the dashes. 

Grief is an imaginary person only you know. It's the shadow you never lose and don't always see. Where you go so goes grief. Maybe I've learned to embrace grief. I know I've learned it can't be outrun.  Peace.