Bolts

My presentation went well yesterday and I felt surrounded by love and support, along with a deep. aching tiredness that goes into my bones. I log onto my email and find more than a dozen emails from mothers of children with schizophrenia. Thank you. Your emails keep me going. I'd also like to respond to many of you so please let me know how I can contact you. It may be in the email header somewhere, but I am too tired to look. I especially have words for Michelle.

My mother calls to let me know she is glad she went to the races and told her friends about Colby. My Mom is a very private person and I know it was hard for her to share, but several of her closest friends there let her know they have had loved ones pass in similar ways. I know she feels better for her talks and will be going back today for more.

Today, after a morning at the barn learning more about therapeutic riding, I face the long drive back to Nashville. It was a difficult drive down. I resolve to do better on the way back. I leave my hotel room a mess, something I never do. I get into the truck, then get out and go back to clean up the room. It is not fair for my emotional roller coaster to cause more work for the hotel staff.

Back in the truck a large, thick rusty bolt rolls out from underneath the seat. Colby was a collector, of everything, and this was something he had picked up a while ago. I pick up the bolt and hug it to myself, getting rust all over my clothes. I miss my son more than I can say. Somehow I will the pending tears away. Then, with a deep, shaky breath, I start the truck and head to the barn.