Snow

The New Year's Eve that Colby was ten it snowed. Big, fat, silent flakes drifted from the sky and by early evening most Nashvillians were either tucked away safely in their homes, or already at their chosen celebratory location. On our street, in our neighborhood, not a single car had gone by since the snow began that afternoon. By eight, there was a good five inches of snow on the ground and we decided to go for a walk.

Outside the silence was stunning. Cocooning, if there is such a word. On the west side of town not a hint of freeway traffic could be heard. Not a door slamming, no voices, no planes. Not that it was a particularly noisy neighborhood where we lived then, but there were always city sounds in the background. Not so tonight. We walked down the sidewalk and when we reached the street we turned right. We started on the side of the street, but as it became apparent that we had the entire neighborhood to ourselves, we moved into the center with the crunch of our feet in the snow making the only sound we heard.

Colby and I marveled that the only tracks we saw were our own. Not even a dog or a rabbit had ventured out before us. And while most of our walk was in complete silence, on the way back, when we doubled over our own tracks, Colby said he hoped all the people and animals without homes had found a place to stay that night. Then he offered his room to anyone we might pass who was shivering in the snow, and I began to cry. While the chances were very slim that we'd come across anyone, Colby's offer was made in earnest. I was reminded once again what a gift Colby was, not just to me, but to everyone he met.

That New Year's Eve was by far my favorite of all my many new years. When we got home, we made hot chocolate and watched movies until it was time for Colby to open the door, run around the yard, bang on a few pots and yell "Happy New Year!" And, for the most part, it was. Although he had some problems, Colby's mental illness had not yet fully reared its ugly head. Today, I remember that magical night fondly. Like Colby, it was a gift, a treasure, and it reminds me that the best things in life truly are free.

Remembering

I have lots of emails tonight and am amazed at the number of them. To the Realtors in Chicago and the mother of the schizophrenic twins in Arizona, to B. in Canada, and the many parents of recently passed children, thank you. I am glad my words touch you, and that my thoughts help you through your days. I appreciate the prayers and support more than you know. Together, I hope we continue to help each other.

For an upcoming counseling session I make a list of memories today. They are random memories, random thoughts. I am not sure what they mean or even if they are supposed to mean anything. The exercise, my counselor says, should allow me to recall events I had forgotten about. And it does. Here are a few of them: Colby and my mom bonding with a racehorse she owned 1/32 of, Colby laughing on the dock at the lake; in the playroom at Vanderbilt Children's Hospital during a severe asthma attack; the two of us under the hood of his first car figuring out how to put oil in; cheering him home after he hit a grand slam to win a baseball game; teaching Colby to swim, to dive, to ride a horse, to drive a car, to make snow angels; going to the Humane Association and watching Sundance choose Colby; serving as one of the chaperones for Colby's 2nd grade field trip; and a magical New Year's Eve walk through our neighborhood after it had snowed. Colby was nine, or maybe ten, and no one else was out. Our footprints were the only marks on a road absent of tire tracks. It was quiet, and the only thing we could hear was the falling snow. We spoke of that walk often in recent years.

Yes, there are sad memories, too. Emotional memories, panicky memories, angry memories, scary memories. But today I remember Colby when he was younger, happier. Maybe it's because at that time in his life Colby was a force of nature, of positive energy. Tomorrow's memories will most likely be from a different time and bring forth a different emotion. Like most people, Colby was complex. Most of us act professionally at work and more casually at home, and Colby's many interests and talents, life successes and challenges, allowed him to present different sides of himself to different people. Plus, we all grow and change as we journey through life. Colby's journey was short, but I am finding that I do have a wealth of memories, and it will take me a lifetime to recall them all.

Drained

I am emotionally drained. Here at my mom's I look at old family photos and wonder what will happen to them when I am gone. It would be a tragedy to destroy them, to so dishonor these good people and their lives, their stories, but who will be interested? I know I am supposed to do something with the photos, maybe do a family history and put it on Amazon.com as a free e-book, but the thought is overwhelming and I know that time is not here, not yet, not now. It will have to wait.

Today it is two months since Colby passed. Both my mom and I are worried about getting through Colby's birthday, which comes up in 5 days. It will be an emotional day, but one I hope to celebrate with some joy, somehow. I will spend the drive back to Tennessee tomorrow thinking of something. In the meantime, I sort photos and add some of Colby to the large pile of relatives who are no longer here.