Skates

For some reason I have been thinking of Colby and skating. Not the skateboard kind of skating, which he did every day and was incredibly good at. And not the roller kind of skating that he did as a young teen. He was also quite good at that. Instead I have been of the ice kind of skating, at which Colby was not so good.

The first time Colby ice skated he must have been around eight. We were visiting my mother during the Christmas holidays and he decided he wanted to try it. So we rented some skates at the local ice rink and off we went. I grew up in Minnesota, where just about every kid learns to both swim and ice skate, so was able to give Colby a few pointers. After half an hour or so he was getting around the ice okay on his own, and even attempted a few more daring moves: skating backwards, a bunny hop, a slicing stop.

We went several times after that over the years. Colby was so athletic, he could excel at just about any sport he wanted to. I think the reason he never became expert at ice skating was because he didn't want to. And, the reason he didn't want to was because he never liked the cold. It's a fact. Where there is ice, there is cold.

I think of Colby and the ice and the skates and the cold, but it is some time before I realize what triggered these specific memories. Yesterday I am in a store and a boy of about fourteen is in line ahead of me with his friend. Both boys have hockey skates slung over their shoulders and cold drinks and candy bars in their hands. "Good Lord," the boy says in reaction to a comment his friend makes.

I have not heard anyone say that since Colby passed. The way this boy said it was with exactly the same inflection that Colby used. In fact, until I heard it, I had forgotten Colby often said that. Now I wonder, more then eight months after my son has passed, what else I have forgotten, will forget. I ponder that for a time and finally decide that I will forget some things. Many things. It's called being human and I have to be okay with that.

What is important is that I never forget the essence of Colby, who he was at his core, what he stood for. While I have a lot of worries, that is one thing I know I do not need to stress over, either now or at any time in the future. And, having one less thing to worry about is always a good thing.

Schoolbus

I am stuck in traffic. A school bus heading my direction is stopped, lights flashing, while a mom talks with the driver. The conversation lasts several minutes. I begin to get impatient when I recall a similar incident that happened 19 years ago. But this time I am the Mom and the bus is on a quiet street in a suburb of Nashville.

Colby had wanted to ride a school bus from the time he knew what a school bus was. He must have been about 18 months old then. I remember taking him to the bus parking lot in Minnesota, where I grew up, when he was a little over two and we stayed there in the car for more than half an hour, looking at acres of buses. Colby was as thrilled as any toddler could be.

On the first few days of kindergarten I took Colby to school. The first day the parents were supposed to meet the teacher. On the second day I had to sign some papers, the third day I had to drop something off. So it wasn't until the end of the first week of school that Colby finally got to ride in a schoolbus. He waited at the end of the driveway with several neighborhood kids, while I stood halfway between the house and the end of the drive. When the bus came he gave me a wave and marched behind the other kids across the road and into the schoolbus. But just as quickly Colby marched back out and began to run across the road. The driver, a burly guy named Charlie, jumped out of the bus and caught Colby before he reached the center line. I half walked, half ran to the bus and began a conversation with Colby and Charlie. All was well. Colby just had a bit of a panic. It happened to a lot of kids. After a few minutes Colby sat on a seat inside the bus and Charlie closed the bus door and waved goodbye.

The drivers of the three cars who had lined up behind the bus all gave me a friendly wave as they passed and I remember being so grateful that they were not angry at the delay. I think of that now and when this bus, today's bus, finally pulls away from the mom, amid the rush of accelerating cars and a few rude gestures from other drivers I slow to give the mom a friendly wave. She looks surprised, then smiles and waves back. I wave not only to show her I am not impatient about the delay, but to thank her for triggering a nice memory about my son.