In four days it will be one year since Colby passed. I haven't posted much in the past few weeks because I have such a swirl of emotion and thought and feeling that I can't begin to grasp onto any of it. What made sense to me six months ago no longer does, or at least it is less concrete than before. Now, half formed thoughts and feelings float through my brain and then disappear as soon as I try to define them.
I have spoken with a number of grieving parents about the first anniversary and just like the way they grieve, these parents honor this day in many different ways. There is no "should" or "should not" when it comes to this. There just is. In one way it is comforting to know that whatever I feel or do is correct. On the other hand it is a bit scary not to have quantifiable bench marks to achieve.
Some parents tell me that at the one year mark they are still in denial. They tell themselves their son or daughter is on an extended vacation overseas or in jail or part of the witness protection program. Other parents keep themselves grounded by visiting their child's grave every day. These coping strategies are as individual as the parents themselves. My strategy is that I talk to Colby. I'd like to think he hears me, but if not, it helps me cope, helps me process this undefinable loss.
To honor Colby's first angelversary several of his friends, my friends, and I will plant a tree. Maybe this will be something we do every year. Maybe not. It's a way to honor Colby's life with a living, growing thing and with something that will give back to our environment. Colby would like this, I think. And maybe Colby will be with all of us four days from today. Maybe I'll tell myself that he will be. Or maybe not.
Showing posts with label tree. Show all posts
Showing posts with label tree. Show all posts
Thursday, July 22, 2010
Wednesday, December 30, 2009
Ornaments
I pull the empty Christmas boxes out of the garage and up the steps to the living room where I deposit them on the living room floor. Then I turn and survey my mom's Christmas tree. It is an artificial tree, a little taller than 6 feet, and it is loaded with ornaments, some of which date back to the 1950s. Each ornament has a story, a history, a place in our family.
I begin to pull ornaments off the tree. one by one, wrap them and place them in a box. Here's the tiny plastic horse jumping over a fence that a friend's mother gave me the Christmas I was eight. Here are the little metal raspberries that our local gas station used to give away during the holidays. Each one is a different color and I remember how excited I was when we got enough gas for me to go inside the station and choose a new one. Here's the angel I got in Hawaii, the beautiful ornaments with loops of hanging pearls that our neighbor made 50 years ago, and the painted birds that look so realistic that every cat we've had has tried to "catch" one.
I make selective picks from the tree, delaying the time when I have to take the loops of colored paper that Colby made when he was three. My hands shake as I touch the paper and tears roll down my face. as I lovingly wrap the paper in tissue and place it in the box. Next is the reindeer head made from Popsicle sticks. Colby made a dozen or more that year, the year he was eight, and gave them to everyone he knew. Then there are the pine cones Colby painted when he was 14, the lovely star ornament he gave my mom when he was 20, and the Snoopy ornament he gave me last year. By this time I have to sit down, the tears are falling so fast I cannot see.
The last ornament is the spire at the top of the tree. This was always Colby's job, to take the spire off and it was one of the last things we'd do before we left Minnesota to head back to Nashville. Mom always had the tree up and decorated by the time we arrived, but we always took it down. Even when he was small, two, three, four years old, I'd lift him up to the top of the tree and he'd carefully pluck the ornament and reverently hand it to me.
I reach for the spire. It's the second spire we've had in my lifetime. This one must be about 30 years old. I am all cried out by this time. The spire is wrapped and packed and I carry five boxes of ornaments back to the garage. I don't know if I can do this again. Next year. Next year, if the tree goes up at all, it may be better to hire someone to take it down, for there are too many memories, too many painful remembrances of the one person who should be here . . . and is not.
I begin to pull ornaments off the tree. one by one, wrap them and place them in a box. Here's the tiny plastic horse jumping over a fence that a friend's mother gave me the Christmas I was eight. Here are the little metal raspberries that our local gas station used to give away during the holidays. Each one is a different color and I remember how excited I was when we got enough gas for me to go inside the station and choose a new one. Here's the angel I got in Hawaii, the beautiful ornaments with loops of hanging pearls that our neighbor made 50 years ago, and the painted birds that look so realistic that every cat we've had has tried to "catch" one.
I make selective picks from the tree, delaying the time when I have to take the loops of colored paper that Colby made when he was three. My hands shake as I touch the paper and tears roll down my face. as I lovingly wrap the paper in tissue and place it in the box. Next is the reindeer head made from Popsicle sticks. Colby made a dozen or more that year, the year he was eight, and gave them to everyone he knew. Then there are the pine cones Colby painted when he was 14, the lovely star ornament he gave my mom when he was 20, and the Snoopy ornament he gave me last year. By this time I have to sit down, the tears are falling so fast I cannot see.
The last ornament is the spire at the top of the tree. This was always Colby's job, to take the spire off and it was one of the last things we'd do before we left Minnesota to head back to Nashville. Mom always had the tree up and decorated by the time we arrived, but we always took it down. Even when he was small, two, three, four years old, I'd lift him up to the top of the tree and he'd carefully pluck the ornament and reverently hand it to me.
I reach for the spire. It's the second spire we've had in my lifetime. This one must be about 30 years old. I am all cried out by this time. The spire is wrapped and packed and I carry five boxes of ornaments back to the garage. I don't know if I can do this again. Next year. Next year, if the tree goes up at all, it may be better to hire someone to take it down, for there are too many memories, too many painful remembrances of the one person who should be here . . . and is not.
Monday, October 19, 2009
Trees
I love trees. Tall and strong. Limbs intertwine to make a beautiful and unique individual. I think of one particular tree today. Its trunk is charred, as if someone tried to burn it down. And about a foot off the ground there are hack marks where someone definitely tried to chop it down. The tree reminds me of a favorite painting of Colby's, a gnarled, leafless tree on a backdrop of yellow and gold.
This past spring, when I first saw the tree, I thought it was dead, barren. I was sure I was right when the other trees around it leafed out and this tree kept its branches bare against the sky. Then one day I notice, on a branch about 10 feet above me, a new leaf, still half furled, spring green against the light blue sky. And then there was another leaf, and another and by late spring this tree was in all its glory, hundreds, thousands, of bright green leaves shading the ground below.
Colby was like that tree. A late bloomer in many ways. Many people tried to cut him down: teachers, youth leaders, counselors. Yet when he blossomed, he was beautiful in all his glory. But some trees are stronger than others. The oak can withstand a storm far better than a silver maple. In that way, Colby was like a silver maple. Wondrous while here, but not able to stay around very long. And like a tree, he crashed suddenly. Able, capable, beautiful one day, then the ravages of storms, wind and time take their toll. In an instant, he is gone.
I think of the tree and marvel that it had the strength to defy the odds, to survive under extreme duress. I realize that I, too, am like that tree, as are all the other parents who have lost children. It has been a very rough few days. The churning waves of panic have threatened to take over several times but I held that tree in my vision, my sights, my thoughts. If it can survive, then so can I. So. Can. I.
This past spring, when I first saw the tree, I thought it was dead, barren. I was sure I was right when the other trees around it leafed out and this tree kept its branches bare against the sky. Then one day I notice, on a branch about 10 feet above me, a new leaf, still half furled, spring green against the light blue sky. And then there was another leaf, and another and by late spring this tree was in all its glory, hundreds, thousands, of bright green leaves shading the ground below.
Colby was like that tree. A late bloomer in many ways. Many people tried to cut him down: teachers, youth leaders, counselors. Yet when he blossomed, he was beautiful in all his glory. But some trees are stronger than others. The oak can withstand a storm far better than a silver maple. In that way, Colby was like a silver maple. Wondrous while here, but not able to stay around very long. And like a tree, he crashed suddenly. Able, capable, beautiful one day, then the ravages of storms, wind and time take their toll. In an instant, he is gone.
I think of the tree and marvel that it had the strength to defy the odds, to survive under extreme duress. I realize that I, too, am like that tree, as are all the other parents who have lost children. It has been a very rough few days. The churning waves of panic have threatened to take over several times but I held that tree in my vision, my sights, my thoughts. If it can survive, then so can I. So. Can. I.
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