I Miss the Sun
I tore a hole in the Carhartt’s he left behind when I grazed them with a new aggressive blade in my chainsaw. And the catch on the Buck knife he carried the day he died fell out and now the blade flops when I open it. His windsurfer he spent so much money on to have it shipped hasn’t been ridden in two years and his surfboards stand in the corner of the wooden shed.
His friend got his shotgun, another got his broken Harley caused by the van that started this mess.
Our dog that he loved now shivers through the day-its muzzle now peppered with grey. But now I let her climb up in my lap and sometimes in bed.
People get married, they change jobs, get pregnant, and grow up. His team got good, there has been a lot to cheer about and the house was filled with the laughter—high fives and hugs, and even a happy dance.
Shootings on TV now cut through me like a knife, a woman crying brings tears to my eyes, and a child dying shuts them tight.
I’m a writer now, not an author. Writers are old people who can’t afford water colors, authors are writers who can because they got paid. Rejection was always hard to swallow but now it cuts, like breaking up in the eighth grade—even when you don’t know the person or business, even when I get the, “It’s not you…” I bare my soul to anonymous literary agents who flatter me with, “I like the concept but…you’re just not popular enough.” “Hey lady, that concept is my dead kid and by the way, dead kids don’t sell.” But instead I say thank you for the feedback, lay in bed, and get up because the dog’s gotta pee.
I count my days, forget my appointments, lose my tools, and take my time. I still curse when I’m mad at myself and feel a breeze of satisfaction when I make something good. But now I wonder if he would like this, or what he would say.
I bake now, and I mechanic too. I like the dough between my fingers and the grease under my nails—just not at the same time.
I listen to a lot more pining cowboy songs and I bought the boots but I still can’t spell bereavement the first time.
Now when I walk into his Aunt’s house I picture his wonderment when he saw their large dog for the first time, when I look to the corner of the field I see his Uncle has a deer stand where he shot his only deer. His engine lies in the corner of the garage and his old car is caked with age.
His brother will someday be older than his older brother, his worker is now the boss, his boss is now the boss’s boss, and my boss is the clock in my head but even it is winding down.
Holidays are a good meal and a memory, and a hope that they will pass quickly. But Tuesdays are good, Thursday’s better, Saturdays are too crowded, and Sundays drag.
I guess things have changed, people have changed, I have changed. Time has moved on. Some forget, some think of him every time they see me, some never knew, some are afraid to think, others never really cared. I fill my lungs with grace and guts before I exhale and retreat. Sometimes I still act the fool; for a moment the laughter clouds my vision with a sweet, sweet smell.
The thing is, he’s there and I’m still here. And as much as I know he’s filled with joy, I’m filled with despair. I’m still counting the days till tomorrow, and he’s still living them. I’m still the bitter seed beneath the snow, he’s the rose in the sun’s warmth. I miss the sun.
Some days I got nothin’. Come on tomorrow, come on.
Andy is a Clinical Psychologist who lost his son in a tragic motorcycle accident and now authors articles on bereavement. The quiz is available! Go to http://andymdavidson.com/Home/Pgd to find out if you may have Prolonged Grief Disorder. Look forward to his upcoming posts, and books. Follow him at his website, AndyMDavidson.com and Facebook.com/ThroughLifeandLoss to find out more about prolonged grief.