Flashbacks

There are so many memories here at my mom's. Everywhere I turn I see things that remind me of Colby. These are painful reminders that he is not here, not fond memories. Not yet. I go down to the lake and think he should be sitting on the bench on the dock beside me. We had some great conversations there. I notice a weak step on the way back up to the house from the dock. Colby should be here to fix it.

In the downstairs bedroom, the room that was mine as a teen and his when Colby visited the past dozen or so years, I find a few of his things: a portable CD player, a shirt, a book. I am sure there is more, but I stop looking. This is too hard.

When Mom and I go to the store, she sits in the back seat, because it is easier for her to get into the car that way, but Colby should be sitting in the passenger seat beside me. When we stop for lunch, it should be lunch for 3, not 2. He should be here to help unload the car, fix the screen door.

Mom finds some old family photos in the garage. They are wrapped in a mouse-eaten burlap bag, but none of the photos are touched. They need to be moved to a safer place inside the house, I think, then just as quickly I think "who cares?" After me there will be no one to remember these people. No one to be interested in their lives, what they accomplished. No one to care. I move the photos inside anyway.

Colby should be here. But he is not. I have to trust that a higher power has good reason for this. I do believe that, but this is so hard. So very, very hard. My one consolation is that Colby is not longer sad, no longer struggling with this life. I know he is at peace and that is my one comforting thought for the day.