Stuff, July 28, 2009, 9:24 p.m.

I start going through Colby's stuff. I would have said "things," but Colby's word was "stuff." I use his word. Colby was a pack rat. A hoarder. Both his room and the basement are filled with books, CDs, musical equipment, art, clothes. And as a homeless person he had stuff scattered across town. Friends gather his belongings and bring them to the house in waves. My living room is full of boxes. I begin to sort through them. Some clothes are wet and moldy. Is it disrespectful to toss a person's clothes in the trash just three days after they have passed? The clothes smell and some are growing a white fungus. With no disrespect intended, I toss them. This is going to be a long process.

There is something on the news that Colby might be interested in so I pick up the phone to call him. I get to the sixth number before I remember. Then my hand starts to shake so violently I have to carefully place the phone on my table and sit down with my hands clenched tightly between my knees. I bite my lips so hard that they bruise. I rock back and forth as Abby and Bailey, canine and feline, come to comfort me.

I get lots of calls and visitors. Flowers, too. All are greatly appreciated. I sit with my arms wrapped around the most recent arrival. So many of Colby's friends say he made a difference in their lives. Even more say he touched them deeply. I am delightfully surprised to find new friends in Colby's friends. And though the common bond we share is my son, who is no longer among us, I am excited and energized by these young people. Many, like Colby, walk a non-traditional path, but I am excited to see what a positive mark they will make on our world.