Missing

October: the month of Samhain. Honoring. Remembering. Speaking of, and to, our ancestors who have passed before us. It's a sacred time, but also joyous. This year, less so. 

You see, we have a new face to add to our family's ofrenda: the son of one of my dearest friends. Though I hadn't seen E in years, he was a part of our village, our extended family. My children grew up with he and his siblings, celebrating birthdays & holidays together, and spending one magical summer where we were all inseparable. 

June 1998, Eric & his brother, Rob

I can't begin to know what Susan is going through. Literally. I can't. Because to even edge close to what that must feel like takes my breath away and nearly brings me to my knees.  To lose one's child. This is a mother's worst nightmare. To say that it's wrong, unfair, all of the "usual" things we utter when a death happens, well, none of that comes close. This is unimaginable pain. I don't know that I could survive it, and yet..people do. 

I know that she's getting through this time by putting one foot in front of the other, checking things off her to-do list, one by one, living each moment as it comes, allowing the grief and anger and, sometimes, a spark of joy, to wash over her. I know these things because I am honored to be her friend, because she found the time and strength to spend two hours on the phone with me yesterday, and because she, via her own blog, is sharing her experience with us all.  

I myself have wept so many tears in the past two weeks since his death, have had this horrible cloud of frustration and despair and fury hanging over me. Feeling helpless (aka not in control) is the worst for me, but there is nothing I can do to change the situation, to make things better/easier for my friend & her family, short of finding a time machine and rewinding back to the moments before a car accident cut short this 35-year-old man's life. 

So, I do what I do. I write and send cards. Tiny gifts. I sit and read her words, weep along "with" her and so many others who love this family. I "heart" the Facebook posts, respond to texts when she has the time & strength to send them. And I love. Love and love and love this wonderful woman who is somehow still standing while enduring a pain that none of us would wish on our worst enemy. I take nature walks, looking and listening for signs. Something, anything, to help me come to terms with this tragedy and give me a moment's peace. Last week I saw one, a tiny blip when I was sure that the Universe was acknowledging my thoughts, assuring me that there was more out there, that he is out there. Maybe it was my imagination. Maybe it was coincidence. But I'll take it. I'll believe in the magic. 

This poem popped up in my Facebook feed this morning, hit me in the gut, took my breath away as only certain prose can do. So, I'll leave it here while I light another purple candle, take another walk around my yard looking for dragonflies who land on Dewdrop bushes and smile through my tears and just keep loving my friend. 

 We will miss you, Eric. 

Photo courtesy of Facebook

Miss you. Would like to take a walk with you.

BY GABRIELLE CALVOCORESSI

Do not care if  you just arrive in your skeleton.

Would love to take a walk with you. Miss you.

Would love to make you shrimp saganaki.

Like you used to make me when you were alive.

Love to feed you. Sit over steaming

bowls of pilaf. Little roasted tomatoes

covered in pepper and nutmeg. Miss you.

Would love to walk to the post office with you.

Bring the ghost dog. We’ll walk past the waterfall

and you can tell me about the after.

Wish you. Wish you would come back for a while.

Don’t even need to bring your skin sack. I’ll know

you. I know you will know me even though. I’m

bigger now. Grayer. I’ll show you my garden.

I’d like to hop in the leaf pile you raked but if you

want to jump in? I’ll rake it for you. Miss you

standing looking out at the river with your rake

in your hand. Miss you in your puffy blue jacket.

They’re hip now. I can bring you a new one

if you’ll only come by. Know I told you

it was okay to go. Know I told you

it was okay to leave me. Why’d you believe me?

You always believed me. Wish you would

come back so we could talk about truth.

Miss you. Wish you would walk through my

door. Stare out from the mirror. Come through

the pipes.

Source: Poetry (October 2021)