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Today I have a panic attack. I have not had one for some time. I am downtown, leaving a meeting when I feel my heart start to pound and the world begin to whirl around me. Somehow I make it to my truck and I lie on the front seat wondering if I am having a heart attack. Eventually the panic subsides and I am left with a nauseated, shaky, emptiness.

I drive home and sit in the driveway, confused. There is a for sale sign in my yard, and the beautiful rosebush to the left of the house has been chopped down. I wonder who did that; the bush stood more than six feet high. Gradually I realize this is not my house, or it isn’t anymore. I now see I have unconsciously driven to a house Colby and I lived in from the time he was nine until he was twelve. It was the house we lived in before we bought the house we (I) have now. I haven’t been by the house in over a year. Colby and I always included it in our “tour of homes” that we did every Thanksgiving weekend. We had lived in eleven houses and each year we took an afternoon and visited them all. As I look at the house I can see that it has new siding and someone has added a railing to the porch. Good. The house badly needed updating. I drive around the block and turn into the alley that runs behind the house. Colby’s tire swing is still there, but our vegetable garden has been turned into lawn.

I park in the alley and stare at Colby’s tire swing. I can almost see him there, swinging far higher than I am comfortable with, then climbing out of the tire as it swings to sit on top of it. Our dog, Sundance, is there too, running around the yard, tail wagging so fast I can barely see it. Colby is dressed as a pirate and yells “Yo, ho ho!” at the top of his lungs every time the tire swings toward the house. I am sitting in a lawn chair on the patio watching him. Our cat, Bootsie, is sitting by my feet and eying a bird that has landed on the fence. It is a wonderful memory.

All of them are gone now. Colby, Sundance, and Bootsie. I feel abandoned. Left behind. Forgotten . . . and I am overwhelmed with sadness. I finally put my truck in gear and drive home, this time to the right house. I hesitate to call this house home anymore as it feels alien in Colby’s absence. I open the door and sit carefully on a once familiar couch. The room, my living room, feels like it belongs to someone else. I spend the rest of the afternoon sitting on a strange couch in a foreign room and wonder what in the world I am supposed to do now.

Haiti

Today I learn that during the 2009 holidays a group of men in recovery gather clothes and in Colby's name distribute them to the homeless under Nashville's Jefferson Street Bridge. The men are from Grandpa's House, a Nashville-based nonprofit recovery support facility that Colby would have entered in Fall 2009.

I am overcome, truly overcome, with gratitude that these men would honor Colby and his memory in a way that would have meant so much to Colby. Colby felt deeply for those who live with life's unfairness, life's sadness, for those who work so much harder than the rest of us just to survive. As a group, these men from Grandpa's House are doing what Colby wanted to, but could not.

Colby wanted to make life better for those who had it rough. When he was twelve, he'd take his guitar, his harmonica, and a couple of extra soft drinks to the park to play for the homeless. When I asked him why he wanted to do that, he said, "Because no one else will. Because they are human beings who enjoy music all the more because they rarely get to hear it played. Because they are human and deserve the respect I can give them." This, from a boy of twelve.

Colby and the men from Grandpa's House remind us that a little compassion, a little help, can make all the difference. They remind us that those who are in need cannot pull themselves up by their bootstraps if they have no boots. That a little can go a very, very long way.

That said, I know Colby would be so very proud if you took a minute to text HAITI to 90999. This will make a $10 donation to the Red Cross relief effort there and will be added to your next cell phone bill. I did and I could feel Colby smile as I did.

Lyrics

Today I find lyrics Colby wrote. Or maybe it was a poem, but I believe these words were written for music. It is hard to tell when he composed this. All his notebooks are jumbled together, and there are scraps of paper with writing, music, lyrics, poems, mixed in with boxes of t-shirts and books and DVDs. Colby's handwriting didn't change much from the time he was about 14, so he probably wrote this sometime in the last ten years, but most likely in the last  2 or 3. I'm not sure if he was finished with this or not, but the words are so true to who Colby was, to what Colby believed, that I want to share them with you.

This is for the homeless, this is for the poor
This is for the people who don't love anymore
This is for the beggars. the forgotten saints
This is for the kids sparing change

This is for the hungry, this is for the weak
This is for those who come out at night who get no sleep
This is for those who never had a chance

Steve went to Vietnam
Drafted to kill for Uncle Sam
When it was over he had survived
But he did not care to live or die

He drinks all day to kill the pain
The merriness of so many, slain
No dollar to his name, just the shirt on his back
He owns nothing, just a pair of socks and a flashback

It don't matter much when you suffer from shellshock

Now you're out, out on your own
Can't find a friend, you're all alone
No goodness or light, no hope or dreams
No happiness or future for you to see

You got no food, you got no clothes
Can't find no shelter, got no where to go

© Colby Keegan