Chapter 11. A different ending

3 minute read

Wearing my “promoting” hat instead of my “writing” bandanna is way out of my comfort zone! I don’t like selling anything, but this book was my work for sixteen years; and now, I really want this brutally sad but beautiful story to find those who need it. Maybe that’s you? Maybe it’s someone you know, support, or counsel? A friend, a neighbor, a family member? Or maybe you know me, and knew Sam, but don’t know the whole story. I hope you’ll read it.

about this chapter

One of the reasons I wrote this book: I needed our story to end differently.

I always knew what I was writing to, what the ending of this story would be: my beautiful boy Sam would live, stay alive, through the power and magic of words.

Chapter 11. A Different Ending is set eleven years after Sam’s death, in May 2018.

writing memoir

Writing memoir, I learned from editing coach Marion Roach Smith, is about proving an argument. Every single section, scene, chapter must prove your argument.

My argument: without imagination, surviving the death of a child would be impossible.

After reviewing my outline, Marion wrote this about the ending: This is simply remarkable. We are deeply suspicious of people who “change the ending” of a story, but this is not that and, in that, you teach us volumes.

During a discussion about my argument, she added, “In proving your argument, you better be damn creative in writing this!”

So that’s what I was determined to be: damn creative.

creating light

“You’re a writer, a storyteller, too, Mommy.”

I stared at the queen’s gaping mouth, at the letters she was made of—air, fire, and water. Every time I looked at her, she seemed to change. Peaceful and still one moment, smoldering and kinetic the next. When I spoke, I thought I saw her mouth moving. “Am I losing my mind? My beautiful boy . . . Am I only imagining you? Are you not real?”

“Imagined or real, Mommy, what you see makes the story.”

I pressed my aching forehead. Playing imaginary was exhausting. “Sammy, I’m losing my words—my memory, my ability to think.” I thought I heard him say it. Patience. Or maybe I did? I suddenly felt the weight of my body, its heaviness. In my muddled mind, I didn’t know which one to do, weight or wait. And then patience popped in again, and I thought about it—always having to be patient. What choice did I have? What choice do I have? I felt dizzy.

“Sammy, I’m sorry, I’m so tired . . . I’m running out of words. I can’t find the words—I’m just so tired.”

He cupped his hands and leaned in and whispered, “They will come back, Mommy, the words. They will come back. And like fireflies that create light from their bodies, your words, too, will create light.”

(from Chapter 11. A different ending: my mission)

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