resurrection, his and mine
Every year, even decades from now when my hair is white and my hips are made of bio-mechanical plastic, the night of June 14th will haunt me with that shriek.
At 7:00 AM on the morning of every June 15th for the rest of my life, I will begin a day of quiet sitting. I might light a fire in the wood stove to fend off the scotch mist outside, and I'll just sit, and this is what I'll think, just like this:
was it true?
was it true?
It felt true.
It felt like we weren't alone.
He went somewhere. Something took him. I don't know where.
I felt him lifted from his body.
Yes. I did.
I don't know what it was, but it was true.
God needed someone to polish the brimstone and reprimand the gays, and so he brought Jesus up. I heard all about it on Fox News. On Jon Stewart. I don't know. I'm confused. Maybe God had a doctor complex. Jesus would be the perfect patient. He would walk into God's office with a birth plan, a life plan, a death plan, and outrage at the medical patriarchy. And God would sigh and gaze longingly at his golf clubs.
Every year, the night of June 14th, Liam will die again. For twelve hours I will cry. Every year, the next morning, I will make a bleary pot of tea and remember that unexpected lifting and grasp at the memory of it, and this will be my ventilator.
+++
My body is unordained. It's just a body. It cannot bear the burden of trust. It is blood and muscle and bone no more or less special than your own, or than the blood and muscle and bone of that damn dog that keeps taking dumps on the beach.
My womb drowned one person, drained the other, and then exploded.
I could get lyrical about it. I could presume to forgive it, except that my womb is a mouthy mofo who thinks anthropomorphic reconciliation is for pussies. (My pussy agrees.) I could take my womb outlet shopping. Strawberry picking. Bowling. Last time I checked, my womb hasn't got any feet. But still. It would kick my ass.
You can't backwards-engineer an experience like this. You cannot will the grief of loss into something called 'healed' any more than an alcoholic can will the end of her alcoholism. It remains, incorporated.
You encounter new goodness and laughter and love. You surround yourself with people who understand that occasional quietness or struggle is not about them, and who never begin sentences with you should unless they end with ...come over 'cause I just made soup. You accept, eventually, at least most of the time. Self-pity loosens its clutch, leaving you feeling blessed and content.
But loss, like motherhood, is not finite. He will always be mine. He will always be gone. I will always have this phantom attached to me, not him but the death of him. And I'll never be sure who is holding the leash.
Woof.
Wednesday, June 16, 2010
Reader Comments (63)
I am sorry that another June 14th has come to pass. Thinking of you and all the boys.
Your words resonate so strongly with me, as always, regardless of the difference in our losses. SO, so sorry for yours.
My heart is with you,
~C~
and your son.
and your womb.
xo
love and peace and light to you this wretched day when you felt your liam lifted and lightened and you had to stay. as always, mama, my wish for you is to be filled up with that light and love and peace. xoxoxo.
Abdiding.
Love to you and your boys, here and there.
xo
These words that you string together, they take my breath away. They really do.
this post was like a tunnel from your heart to ours.
beautiful
Here. Silent. Awed.
I hope the passing of another year makes it somehow easier to focus on the life around you. Not to forget, but to re-energize.
Take care.
I too am awed by how the moment can come back with such intensity and yet the clarity of "did it happen" seems to become foggy with time. And still something lingers... so it must have been true...
i love you.
Hugs.
Here's to hope of a life eternal, because I want you to get to hold your baby again. And I want my dad to get to hold me.
Give yourself the permission to remain unresolved - how could it ever be? - and the same compassion you extend to others as you find your way.
P.S.: Your picture! The Point. Perfect. Brilliant. Just so.
A story? As a girl I used to listen to The Point, by Harry Neilsson
A narrated musical fable about boy and his dog Arrow who lived in the land of Point, where everyone had a point on the top of their heads. However Oblio, our hero, had no point. And so he was banished to the Pointless Forest. Where he finds out, after the requisite adventures with some trippy characters, that everybody has a point, and none at all.
love to you and yours, here and there. xo
I love what you have written, especially "you cannot backwards-engineer an experience like this." Your writing makes me stretch and grow as I seek to understand your grief, and someitmes I grasp your eloquence and the beauty of your words, and at other times I grasp . . . just air, and I feel the lack is within me, because you are so eloquent, but ...yet..I just don't understand, and I want to, because I admire and respect you so much.
I don't understand the paragraph beginning with "God needed someone to polish the brimstone and reprimand the gays . . ." and I know writers need not explain and should not have to explain to the ignorant Philistines what they mean by what they write (if it helps, I didn't understand the metaphor/imagery of The Life of PI, either, so that shows you how conventional my thinking is).
Just a comment, not to ask or criticize. But hoping for enlightenment or . . . I don't know and I do hope I have not offended anyone here. Thanks for letting me post a comment.
Hugs.
I am sorry for all your sadness. I am sorry Liam's life was much too short.
"June Gloom" has new meaning this year.
Deep peace to you.
Kyran
I'm not a religious person, at least not in an attending sort of way. And so when Liam died, what I experienced contrasted abruptly with how I see the concept of God and goodness voiced in our society. All that cultural fear, uncertainty, and doubt - and the exclusion of others - is propped up by religion (not just christianity). And that's sad. So it's just a little dig at interpretation, that's all. It's meant to be ridiculous as a comment on our own ridiculousness ('us' being all of us).
Then I just got carried away. I just liked the idea of God playing golf.
Thanks to everyone for being here still, after a bit of a dark stetch. This year was tougher. Or maybe, each year, I forget how tough it was. I don't know. But thank you. I'm very grateful. xo
you should come over. i really did make soup. xo.
you were in my thoughts on the anniversary of liam's passing. still are.
may our boys be dancing on the clouds and singing through the stars.
much love
Remembering Liam.
a thousand hugs for you.