Travel

I am on my way to Minnesota to visit my mom. I have not seen her since Colby passed, so it will be an emotional trip. Colby and I made this trip several times a year, every year, and we had developed "regular" stops, regular routines. I take care not to follow any of that and make this trip as different as possible. Otherwise it will be too painful. I didn't pack any of the red licorice, beef jerky or sports drinks I usually bring. Didn't bring any of the CDs we usually listen to.

I stop in Clarksville for gas. Five older men are outside, drinking coffee. After I stick my debit card in the gas pump they all come ambling over. "Whatcha got there in the back of your truck?" one asks. I look where he is pointing. Tucked in a plastic garden tub is an old, metal washbasin of my grandmother's. My mom uses it for gardening and she and Colby filled it with plants as a gift for me from her garden the last time Colby and I visited. That was less than two months ago. "It's a washtub," I say. "No, no it ain't," another says. "That there, that there's a ham boiler, 'cept they usually have a roll of copper on the top." I explain again that this has been a gardening or wash tub for the past 60 or so years. "Where'd y'all get it?" he asks. I tell him the tub is originally from either Wisconsin or Minnesota. "Well then, that just' 'bout explains it," he said knowingly. "Don't no one up there know how to cook ham." A third man jumps in. "If you got a top for it, I might give ya 40 dollars for it," he says. I tell them I've never seen a top for it and it is a family heirloom; I wouldn't sell it for four hundred dollars. They shake their heads at my stupidity and amble off. I think how Colby and I would have chuckled over the exchange for miles. I miss him so.

I point the truck toward Minnesota and purposefully keep the radio dial away from the station we always listen to in south central Illinois. I intentionally do not stop at the gas station in Bloomington, Illinois that we always stop at. I make sure I am well occupied on the phone during the stretch that Colby always drove. So many memories that I can't bear to experience now, but also can't let go of. As other grieving parents from my support group have said, it is so very hard for anyone other than another grieving parent to understand that this is an every minute, every hour, every day, every week, every month, every year existence that you never get over or past, you just learn to live with it. This grief never ends, it never goes away, but it does evolve. Maybe the next trip, or the trip after that, I will stop in Bloomington. We'll see.

Missing

I wake up this morning thinking that death is so very permanent. An obvious thought, but it strikes me hard as I get ready to go to the airport. For the past eight years, ever since he got his driver’s license, Colby has taken me to and from the airport. I travel for speaking engagements and business and he was always available to ferry me back and forth. I loved our times together as we drove down the highway. Most of our important conversations took place in that way. At the airport, he’d unload my luggage to the curb and give me a big hug. “Be careful, now,” he’d say. “Call me when you land.” If the plane was late, there inevitably was a voice mail from Colby waiting for me when I landed. On the trip home he was always late picking me up and we always had to stop at the nearest gas station, because he’d arrive at the airport driving on fumes. I learned to enjoy those waits. It was a time for me to put the most recent trip behind me, and focus on what I needed to get done now that I was home.

Today I drive myself to the airport, and park in the long-term lot. I ride the shuttle to the airport and cry all the way. This isn’t the way it is supposed to be. Colby should be here to drop me off. I find that when you cry in public, there are two kinds of people, the ones who look away and pretend you aren’t there, and the kind who rush over to see if they can help. The other three people on the shuttle this morning are all the kind who look away.

Now, on the plane, I realize there will be no one to call when I land. No one to care whether or not I arrive safely. If the plane is late there will be no voice mail from Colby to check in. When I return, I will have no wait where I can reorganize my thoughts. Instead, I will search the parking lot dragging my luggage behind because I have no idea where I parked.

I miss my son in so many unexpected ways. This is just the latest.