Loss – Willower.org

near, even when far away

2 minute read

On your birthday today…

It’s Monday, March 2, your birthday. Oh my gosh, you’re twenty-eight today. I’m sitting here, early morning, outside in the dark, remembering you, my beautiful boy.

You’ll always be my beautiful boy. Though I know you’re older now, larger than life.

Far away.

Sometimes you cover the sky with gray pillowy clouds — because you know how I love a soft gray sky.

Or not so far away.

Sometimes speaking in an owl’s voice, waking me in the still dark morning to say goodnight.

Sometimes you stay awake, turn into a tiny titmouse, and chatter on about your favorite puppy, Chi-hua-hua. Chi-hua-hua…

Then you make yourself into a chickadee, twig-hopping, repeating, Swing set. Swing set. Swing set…

I smile at you as I follow you from branch to branch. Yes, yes, I do remember that swing set, the one with the purple seats.

Just before you leave again, just before sunrise, you spy me with your little vireo eye, like the eye of a husky dog, your second favorite kind of puppy, and, in a soft chortling voice, you sing to me. I love the melody but can’t make out the lyrics.

I tell you I love you.

And you sing again, Love you tooo! Love you tooo! Then flutter your wings, shake off the morning dew, and fly away.

And I hear you saying, See you tomorrow! Okay? See you tomorrow! Okay?

Okay. See you tomorrow.

The sky is pale blue now. The sun is peeking through the trees; its reflection on the pool’s glassy surface is blinding me. The neighbor is cooking something; the smell of garlic is making me hungry. A cardinal is pinging. A woodpecker is knocking. A mourning dove is asking, Who who who…

What, Sammy? What did you say?

I’ll be near, Mommy, even when I’m far away. Okay?

Yes. Okay. And I’ll be here waiting, watching, listening for you, my beautiful boy, my pillowy gray sky, my owl, my tiny bird…

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Grief grabbed me again

5 minute read

For the first few months after Sam’s death, I suffered stabbing headaches in and around my eyes.

“Narrow-angle glaucoma,” the ophthalmologist said. “Yours is the worst I’ve seen.”

I wondered if the pain was from not crying. I didn’t ask. The question sounded ridiculous in my head: My son, he’s gone, and it hurts when I cry, so I wonder, did this happen, this buildup—of tears?—because I’ve been stopping myself from crying? Suppressing grief, like pruning branches, I’ve learned, only causes it to mushroom.
(an excerpt from Willower: Rewriting Life After Unimaginable Loss: Chapter 8. Grieving)

It’s been over eighteen years since my little boy died. So I wasn’t expecting this.

Another birthday

2 minute read

Morning. I am here, sitting outside meditating, eyes closed, feeling the sun on my face, rising. Imagining, for a few minutes, that it’s him shining on me, in me.

It’s your birthday today, sweet son of mine.

what to do with those sad gone thoughts: write

2 minute read

longing for those who are gone

JANUARY 28, twelve years ago today, was the day Rebecca decided would be her last. And I’m missing her, my longtime and loving friend.

A few years back, I wrote this. This morning, while thinking about what day it is, I read it again, grateful to have written about and to her.

remembering my dad

3 minute read

(👆In the photo: my father and me heading into my grandmother’s house in Miami, circa 1967.)

in the safe gray zone

He died seventeen years ago today. And, as Forrest Gump said, “That’s all I have to say about that.”

I don’t feel sad or wistful. I’m like a wheat field, waves of beige sameness. Neutral, undisturbed, bending with the wind.

without imagination…

3 minute read

a private note

WHENEVER I READ a book, I always find my very own personal takeaway, a sentence or two that stands out to me, seemingly as if the writer meant the message just for me—like a private note. The author may not have even meant for that particular line or two to be one of the story’s takeaways, and therein lies the magic (of words, and reading books).

He’d be 26 today

3 minute read

March 2, 2024. He would be twenty-six today. Or still nine. Or three-hundred and twenty-nine.

What is time anyway?

Einstein said that time is not absolute and in fact depends on the observer.

Landslide

reading time 3 minutes

Fall. The air is changing. It’s still muggy but less hot now.

Though it’s hidden behind the clouds, the moon is full today.

Oh, mirror in the sky

What is love?

I’ve done my best, tried until I couldn’t see straight anymore, or find any other errors to fix. It’s 9/29/23, 18 days until . . . my book, my beloved son, both fully grown now, will soon fly away, and be free of me and my perfectionist ways. To live their lives on their own. Though not alone, never alone.

save yourself

words that delivered

In her memoir, Lucky, Alice Sebold said, “No one can pull anyone back from anywhere. You save yourself or you remain unsaved.”

It is true.

You have to save yourself (no one can pull you back from this place). You have to trust yourself. You have to be the expert on you and your grief.

In my case, after the sudden death of my son, Sam, I withdrew, cocooned from the world, and ignored those who told me to do otherwise. I was the expert on my grief. This was my way.

willower®

A few years ago, I saw that someone had added “willower” to UrbanDictionary.com. Okay, it’s a crowdsourced online dictionary of slang words and phrases, but I especially like UD’s tagline: “Define Your World.”

On your birthday today…

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longing for those who are gone

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in the safe gray zone

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a private note

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words that delivered

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