At Christmas we miss you so much.
We get your ornaments out from the box. And put them up on the tree. We buy you one every year.
We love you as much as we love each other, but you aren't here.
Our boy, our son, brother. We miss you so much.
I love being together with family this time of year, the baking of cookies and old traditions being brought to present, celebrating love and being inside when it's dark, drinking warm drinks, being cozy. I just wish you were here.
My mom buys you a coat every Christmas. She buys a coat your size and donates it to a little boy who needs it. The coat looked so big this year. I so wish I could see you wearing it. But I'm glad that another little boy will wear it. He deserves it and I wish him so well in his life.
This year I feel even more a need to draw you into our traditions. I'm getting you a stocking tomorrow and we will fill it with poems and notes and donations we will give to another child in your honor. I want to say your name at Christmas meals, and love you at family gatherings, light candles for you, include your name in cards. And do it without shame or worry of what people will think. This is what I feel to do this year. You are part of our Christmas, so I will include you. Your spirit.
Most people miss someone at Christmas, I know we are not alone. Loving and missing are an honor. I am glad to have loved your beautiful golden self the way I got to, to feel you move, to have you so close to my body, to kiss you and sing to you, to have my first baby. To get to have more. To miss you the rest of my life. It IS better to have loved and lost, then never to have loved.
But the tears are there. And the wondering why it had to be you. But it was you.
Anyway, I want to say I love you, my boy. It feels good to tell you. I wish I could hug your 3 year old body and kiss your face till it bugged you! You're my darling.
mama
Friday, December 16, 2011
Friday, November 4, 2011
Thank You
Just put Luna to sleep for her nap. She fell asleep in my arms, which is one of the best things in the world. We love each other so much. So wonderful to feel that, to know it and not question, to just revel in it. I stare at her for a while before I walk her to her bed. And lay her down to sleep by herself for a little while. So beautiful. Hard to walk away. Each day is so precious. And she is changing and getting so tall and saying so much.
I look at Otto's pictures on the windowsill as she is sleeping in my arms and feel my love for him, our boy. Accepting our big love for him, out in the open, telling people openly, "no, don't be sorry that you asked if she has an older sibling, because I like to talk about him." I love him, still love him, and I am so happy to talk about my son too. Luna knows him.
We are at an easier place. The heartache doesn't take over everything as it does at first. But the missing is always there, and sometimes comes over bigger. I missed him a lot at Halloween, felt dizzy by seeing all the kids, remembering Halloweens when we were so devastated to be without our child. He is always in my heart, the tenderness that filled me when I got to hold him was something I had never felt so strongly and meltingly before. He gave that to me. He made me a mama. And he gave me the gratefulness I have with Luna, knowing the preciousness of moments, of the love between mama and child, that nothing could ever replace it.
And the moment I just had, hearing the whir of the wall heater in our small house, the spin of the drier, the sunlight coming into the living room between tree branch shadows and the bleeps of the parakeet in the other room as my beautiful girl slept happily in my lap, I said Thank You. Thank you for this perfectly peaceful moment, when all is well. This was my greatest dream and it is here. Thank you.
I look at Otto's pictures on the windowsill as she is sleeping in my arms and feel my love for him, our boy. Accepting our big love for him, out in the open, telling people openly, "no, don't be sorry that you asked if she has an older sibling, because I like to talk about him." I love him, still love him, and I am so happy to talk about my son too. Luna knows him.
We are at an easier place. The heartache doesn't take over everything as it does at first. But the missing is always there, and sometimes comes over bigger. I missed him a lot at Halloween, felt dizzy by seeing all the kids, remembering Halloweens when we were so devastated to be without our child. He is always in my heart, the tenderness that filled me when I got to hold him was something I had never felt so strongly and meltingly before. He gave that to me. He made me a mama. And he gave me the gratefulness I have with Luna, knowing the preciousness of moments, of the love between mama and child, that nothing could ever replace it.
And the moment I just had, hearing the whir of the wall heater in our small house, the spin of the drier, the sunlight coming into the living room between tree branch shadows and the bleeps of the parakeet in the other room as my beautiful girl slept happily in my lap, I said Thank You. Thank you for this perfectly peaceful moment, when all is well. This was my greatest dream and it is here. Thank you.
Friday, September 23, 2011
Fall Equinox
I miss you, baby.
I remember holding you and the softness of your brown hair on my chin,
How you nestled in
Your yawn that went back and forth
Your feet, wide and thick,
Your long legs
The veins in your forehead,
their winding ways,
how they made me think of all of the tributaries of arteries and veins
that wound around and through to your heart,
to your organs,
your fingers,
the amazing universe of you,
And how you were mine.
The first face I saw as my child,
A merging of me and my love,
the wonder of that.
I wish I had so many more days to stare at you,
To learn you
and take you in.
To touch you and caress your head,
to sing to you and talk to you.
I look at the stars to see you now
I look outside and see if the skies are clear
or if there are clouds,
and if I see the specks of silver in the black,
I take comfort in the great expansion
of this universe,
of all the mysteries that I don't know,
of the way the earth moves around our star,
of the way things move so far away,
there is so much room for you to be
Somewhere.
I already know you are here with me
Somehow
And that you love me. I know and know that you love me.
That if you could you would put your small 3 year old hands
on your mommy's head,
just to feel her hair.
I love you too baby.
On this first day of fall,
the holy equinox,
I celebrate the veil thinning,
spirit seeming closer,
the elk and the deer coming out
a time when we see you more clearly.
I love you so much, my sweet little boy. and miss you.
I remember holding you and the softness of your brown hair on my chin,
How you nestled in
Your yawn that went back and forth
Your feet, wide and thick,
Your long legs
The veins in your forehead,
their winding ways,
how they made me think of all of the tributaries of arteries and veins
that wound around and through to your heart,
to your organs,
your fingers,
the amazing universe of you,
And how you were mine.
The first face I saw as my child,
A merging of me and my love,
the wonder of that.
I wish I had so many more days to stare at you,
To learn you
and take you in.
To touch you and caress your head,
to sing to you and talk to you.
I look at the stars to see you now
I look outside and see if the skies are clear
or if there are clouds,
and if I see the specks of silver in the black,
I take comfort in the great expansion
of this universe,
of all the mysteries that I don't know,
of the way the earth moves around our star,
of the way things move so far away,
there is so much room for you to be
Somewhere.
I already know you are here with me
Somehow
And that you love me. I know and know that you love me.
That if you could you would put your small 3 year old hands
on your mommy's head,
just to feel her hair.
I love you too baby.
On this first day of fall,
the holy equinox,
I celebrate the veil thinning,
spirit seeming closer,
the elk and the deer coming out
a time when we see you more clearly.
I love you so much, my sweet little boy. and miss you.
Thursday, August 25, 2011
He Was Here 3 Years Ago
This has been heavy. I wasn't expecting such heaviness. Maybe because the rest of life has been lightening up, around the year, that it is more shocking to go back into the rounds of the anniversary, the re-living of it all.
On the days it hits hard my legs are heavy, like right after Otto died. They feel like they are made of something else, a heavier earth than flesh. My hands don't work, I can't open anything, the toys or drinks that I usually can. I have anxiety, my stomach tightens up, life feels daunting and big and like, at any moment, something terrible can happen.
When you're not in this state it seems silly, it's easy to comfort someone with anxiety and say, no, the chances are so slim. You think that nothing bad can REALLY happen to you, not if you make no mistakes.
But we all make them. Not even mistakes, really, just being slightly off with your timing... A little boy in our town was killed this week in a crosswalk, going back to his car from soccer practice, with his family, and he was just walking a second or two behind them, and a driver didn't see him, and now he is gone. Four years old. This story is sunk in my stomach like a rock. Every crosswalk I see is a moment to gear up, get my senses sharp, whether I'm driving or walking. I think of this little boy, how his parents are feeling, how horrible it is.
We really are vulnerable. So the other side of it is, that right now is really good. Even though we are tired and hungry, or wish we had more money to cover the bills, or wish for more success or a bigger house, or whatever it is, the other side of this vulnerability is realizing that, since it can all be taken so suddenly, I might as well enjoy this really good moment right now, like the walk we had yesterday at dusk around the neighborhood park. "We are all alive," I told myself. "I am with my husband, my daughter, my dog, we are walking down the street to our house, and we are happy." And it becomes warm and covers my soreness and I sink into my life, into the trueness of it.
But this month has a deep darkness to it too, a deep missing, a deep tearing, I truly miss my son, my little boy, I cry really hard, my ribs constrict my lungs, knowing that, in this body, in this life, I will never see him again. It seems too hard. My whole being feels off, I can't return calls, I can hardly get the dishes done, a big part of me is gone with him. I love him and he's gone. He's my little boy, my first child, and he's gone. I want so badly to see him on the swings, hitting a tree with a stick, laughing with other little boys. Seeing how much he looks like his daddy.
This is my month to be more soundly WITH him, and part of it means that I hurt a lot. It's not a choice I make - well, part of it is. I could choose to ignore all these feelings and go crazy trying to be normal, or I could be fairly sane but really sad. It seems like it should be the opposite, but it's not. And it's much easier to choose the sad route. The feeling route.
It's beautiful to go to his grave and cover it with rose petals from his rose bush, with the leaves from the tree where we sat with him, to burn sage and kiss the stone and talk to him, to feel my body evaporating and sitting in the world of spirit, to feel my prayers to him rise up with the smoke from the sacred sage. This is the other side of the pain, the extreme beauty of love and being carried over to a big peace with the surrender to grief. The quietness of my heart after a good cry with him.
This year, in short, is no easier than others. It almost feels harder. There is some sort of realization in this triad, this 3rd year, that his time here is really over, it's not coming back, there is no way he can come back. It takes a long time for a body and soul to really sink this in.
We look at his pictures, his beauty, his soft, strong, sweet body, the comfort he took in cuddling up to his mom and dad, the love, and it is beautiful, but, let's be honest, it's horribly tragic too. This year the tragedy is in first place.
This too is part of life. Many have tragedy. I don't feel like glossing it over with anything to sweeten the story. Or make anyone feel better.
But there are things that are easier: I don't blame myself. This is pretty huge. To let that burden slide off. And I don't feel embarrassed when it comes up with strangers. I just tell them what happened. I don't worry about how they'll take it, I just tell them. I don't need them to understand or have the right reaction as much. He's my child, not theirs. Also, I know he is here, and that he loves us. He seems to let me know all the time, in ways that are special for me.
This is a long road, my friends. We are just at the beginning.
On the days it hits hard my legs are heavy, like right after Otto died. They feel like they are made of something else, a heavier earth than flesh. My hands don't work, I can't open anything, the toys or drinks that I usually can. I have anxiety, my stomach tightens up, life feels daunting and big and like, at any moment, something terrible can happen.
When you're not in this state it seems silly, it's easy to comfort someone with anxiety and say, no, the chances are so slim. You think that nothing bad can REALLY happen to you, not if you make no mistakes.
But we all make them. Not even mistakes, really, just being slightly off with your timing... A little boy in our town was killed this week in a crosswalk, going back to his car from soccer practice, with his family, and he was just walking a second or two behind them, and a driver didn't see him, and now he is gone. Four years old. This story is sunk in my stomach like a rock. Every crosswalk I see is a moment to gear up, get my senses sharp, whether I'm driving or walking. I think of this little boy, how his parents are feeling, how horrible it is.
We really are vulnerable. So the other side of it is, that right now is really good. Even though we are tired and hungry, or wish we had more money to cover the bills, or wish for more success or a bigger house, or whatever it is, the other side of this vulnerability is realizing that, since it can all be taken so suddenly, I might as well enjoy this really good moment right now, like the walk we had yesterday at dusk around the neighborhood park. "We are all alive," I told myself. "I am with my husband, my daughter, my dog, we are walking down the street to our house, and we are happy." And it becomes warm and covers my soreness and I sink into my life, into the trueness of it.
But this month has a deep darkness to it too, a deep missing, a deep tearing, I truly miss my son, my little boy, I cry really hard, my ribs constrict my lungs, knowing that, in this body, in this life, I will never see him again. It seems too hard. My whole being feels off, I can't return calls, I can hardly get the dishes done, a big part of me is gone with him. I love him and he's gone. He's my little boy, my first child, and he's gone. I want so badly to see him on the swings, hitting a tree with a stick, laughing with other little boys. Seeing how much he looks like his daddy.
This is my month to be more soundly WITH him, and part of it means that I hurt a lot. It's not a choice I make - well, part of it is. I could choose to ignore all these feelings and go crazy trying to be normal, or I could be fairly sane but really sad. It seems like it should be the opposite, but it's not. And it's much easier to choose the sad route. The feeling route.
It's beautiful to go to his grave and cover it with rose petals from his rose bush, with the leaves from the tree where we sat with him, to burn sage and kiss the stone and talk to him, to feel my body evaporating and sitting in the world of spirit, to feel my prayers to him rise up with the smoke from the sacred sage. This is the other side of the pain, the extreme beauty of love and being carried over to a big peace with the surrender to grief. The quietness of my heart after a good cry with him.
This year, in short, is no easier than others. It almost feels harder. There is some sort of realization in this triad, this 3rd year, that his time here is really over, it's not coming back, there is no way he can come back. It takes a long time for a body and soul to really sink this in.
We look at his pictures, his beauty, his soft, strong, sweet body, the comfort he took in cuddling up to his mom and dad, the love, and it is beautiful, but, let's be honest, it's horribly tragic too. This year the tragedy is in first place.
This too is part of life. Many have tragedy. I don't feel like glossing it over with anything to sweeten the story. Or make anyone feel better.
But there are things that are easier: I don't blame myself. This is pretty huge. To let that burden slide off. And I don't feel embarrassed when it comes up with strangers. I just tell them what happened. I don't worry about how they'll take it, I just tell them. I don't need them to understand or have the right reaction as much. He's my child, not theirs. Also, I know he is here, and that he loves us. He seems to let me know all the time, in ways that are special for me.
This is a long road, my friends. We are just at the beginning.
Tuesday, August 16, 2011
August
Oh, I miss my boy so much. I miss his smell, the dear and kind expression of his face, the back of his head, my son, my first child.
The one that made me know the hugeness of endless love, that opened my heart so big.
I miss my child. You see, he wasn't just A child, it was not a matter of getting pregnant again and having another one and making everything better that way. He was Otto. Singular. A person all his own, and my boy. He grew and moved in my belly, I loved being pregnant and holding his life. I loved that amazing closeness, that constant hug and love, the honor of being a mama.
I loved seeing him in the ICU, tape and cords everywhere, I loved looking in on him in the middle of the night and seeing his nose, and seeing his hands and feet and touching him and knowing he was mine, this beautiful boy I could never have imagined. How big he was, how strong and tall, I knew he would be a beautiful man one day.
I miss HIM.
So darling friends, I want to tell you something. Something that will be interesting to you because it doesn't come naturally. When I am sad about Otto, and missing him, I only need you to miss him with me, or to hear me missing him. I don't want you to make it better.
I don't want you to remind me that I have Luna now because I know, Luna is the light in my days and my laugh and my amazement. I need to talk about just Otto sometimes.
I need him to have a place of honor, a place of his own, and I need to feel the pain of missing him. Especially this month. This is my month with him, the one where I want to sit in a dark room and cry and talk to him. The one where I remember the saddest of days, the one where I remember the bliss of holding him for the first time, of loving him so much, of getting to rock him to sleep. Of changing his diaper. Of kissing him. I need to feel all of this, and it naturally comes to the surface this month. It is an intimate and hard and amazing thing. It is mine and I need to have it. And sometimes I need it to be witnessed and seen. And it will hurt for you too. Hurt is just part of joy. The other part.
I feel so much love from my friends this month, from people I hardly know, that remember that August is his month. This means so much to me. He is such a part of our family.
Today Luna got out a photo album of her brother, closed the cabinet, threw the album on the couch, climbed up onto the couch, and looked through it, naming all the people in the pictures. "Mommy, Daddy, Otto," making sweet, soft sounds of her own words too, and when she was done, she got down and put it back in the cabinet. She doesn't normally put things away. She knows this is special. She has a sweet love for this baby Otto that her Mommy and Daddy loves so much in the pictures. Sometimes she kisses his picture. She calls him budder. (brother.) What a darling girl. He is part of our family, I feel him here so much, he is mostly in my heart, and he loves Luna, and Luna loves him, and we will find our way through this family shape.
I am grateful for my son. I am so grateful to be his mama. I would rather have this pain than not have him at all, because he is mine and I am his and it will never be broken.
The one that made me know the hugeness of endless love, that opened my heart so big.
I miss my child. You see, he wasn't just A child, it was not a matter of getting pregnant again and having another one and making everything better that way. He was Otto. Singular. A person all his own, and my boy. He grew and moved in my belly, I loved being pregnant and holding his life. I loved that amazing closeness, that constant hug and love, the honor of being a mama.
I loved seeing him in the ICU, tape and cords everywhere, I loved looking in on him in the middle of the night and seeing his nose, and seeing his hands and feet and touching him and knowing he was mine, this beautiful boy I could never have imagined. How big he was, how strong and tall, I knew he would be a beautiful man one day.
I miss HIM.
So darling friends, I want to tell you something. Something that will be interesting to you because it doesn't come naturally. When I am sad about Otto, and missing him, I only need you to miss him with me, or to hear me missing him. I don't want you to make it better.
I don't want you to remind me that I have Luna now because I know, Luna is the light in my days and my laugh and my amazement. I need to talk about just Otto sometimes.
I need him to have a place of honor, a place of his own, and I need to feel the pain of missing him. Especially this month. This is my month with him, the one where I want to sit in a dark room and cry and talk to him. The one where I remember the saddest of days, the one where I remember the bliss of holding him for the first time, of loving him so much, of getting to rock him to sleep. Of changing his diaper. Of kissing him. I need to feel all of this, and it naturally comes to the surface this month. It is an intimate and hard and amazing thing. It is mine and I need to have it. And sometimes I need it to be witnessed and seen. And it will hurt for you too. Hurt is just part of joy. The other part.
I feel so much love from my friends this month, from people I hardly know, that remember that August is his month. This means so much to me. He is such a part of our family.
Today Luna got out a photo album of her brother, closed the cabinet, threw the album on the couch, climbed up onto the couch, and looked through it, naming all the people in the pictures. "Mommy, Daddy, Otto," making sweet, soft sounds of her own words too, and when she was done, she got down and put it back in the cabinet. She doesn't normally put things away. She knows this is special. She has a sweet love for this baby Otto that her Mommy and Daddy loves so much in the pictures. Sometimes she kisses his picture. She calls him budder. (brother.) What a darling girl. He is part of our family, I feel him here so much, he is mostly in my heart, and he loves Luna, and Luna loves him, and we will find our way through this family shape.
I am grateful for my son. I am so grateful to be his mama. I would rather have this pain than not have him at all, because he is mine and I am his and it will never be broken.
Sunday, May 8, 2011
Mother's Day
It was supposed to rain but instead it was sunny with a clean breeze, the air smelled full of flowers and water and green grass. The roses are blooming and there is so much color. We spent the afternoon at Dragonfly Farms, an organic flower farm in Healdsburg where Ryan and I picked out our wedding flowers 12 years ago. Roses of the lightest color, and deep deep red and purple.
Luna loved the ducks and chickens. If she took your hand, you knew that was where you were headed. She loves animals. She learns so much all the time, animal sounds, words, she says "yah" or "no" if you ask her a question. She is full of wanting to learn. And lots of squeals of laughter. Especially if Bo eats out of her hand.
In our backyard, Ottos' rose bush is full of flowers. It was easy to pick a bouquet today to bring to his headstone, of red and orange roses, of calla lilies, of pink carnations from our yard. My mom and Josef and Ryan's parents were all there. It felt good to hear their voices around.
I am just happy at first to see the beautiful headstone, to put the bright flowers in the vase at the base of the stone. I clear it off. I have always seen people do this in movies, and now it's interesting to do it myself, it is like making his bed and smoothing the sheets, natural to want the stone to look polished and dignified, to wipe off any smears of dirt, brush away the pine needles. To care for my son in a small way.At first I am pleased to see it and then Ryan gives me a hug and the tears come from my belly. I hug him for a long time and cry. I don't want Otto to be down there. I feel the weight of the stone on top of him, the weight on my heart of accepting how things are and not wanting to. The weight of love. The weight of being brave. It makes me feel tired. So I keep crying, letting myself feel all of this, all of how things are. My sweet little girl running around, my sweet little boy, watching his family around his grave, placing flowers, missing him.
I love being able to have this ceremony, have the family around to give him kisses on the the earth above him with our fingers, in this beautiful piece of country surrounded by apple trees and blue skies with white clouds. This is life. Life is getting more and more beautiful as time goes by, more full, I see how it includes dying. But it is not less painful. The pain is part of it too.
We stop at the frozen yogurt place in Sebastopol on our way out of town. It reminds me of all of our counseling sessions after Otto left, just barely walking up the hill, a block from our therapist's office, to this place, to have a treat and process a little. It is the best yogurt place.
Eating my yogurt I feel ghosts of the huge rifts we have had to find our way across, the kindness of the people who slowly walked us through, the sound of a soft voice that let us cry and cry. And here we are, a little bit later, here we are, still alive, humbly on the earth as it turns again and again, small creatures soaking up the spring. Visiting the small grave of such a beautiful, wise, big soul.
Wednesday, March 23, 2011
Fantasy
Somewhere in the past 2 years I had developed a fantasy. It was a story in my being that I had to play out, I had a compulsion to complete. It was as though I were there.
Losing Otto has made every story of children's deaths real. And one that kept playing in my head was one from the Holocaust. I had heard a story sometime in my life of soldiers taking babies from mother's arms and throwing them off bridges.
This story is too hard for me to process, that instant of life changing to death, without need, with such shock.
So, in my story,
I am in line, on a bridge, being taken to a camp among my family and people from my town, my baby in my arms. A soldier takes my baby, we are over a river, the bridge 30 feet or so above the water, and it's cold, it's fall. It's twilight.
He throws my baby over the railing and without a hesitation I rush over the rail too. Into the cold cold water. The baby's blanket is white, so I can see it even in the last light of day, 10 feet below the surface. I grab him. Bullets come into the water, but they don't find us. I swim out towards the edge of the river, and there are trees there, making dark, making shade. We are hidden.
We move a little farther down, into the trees, into the woods, in the water. The soldiers give up, they move on, I hear people crying.
We get out of the water, very cold. I hold him close to get any heat I have.
A little ways into the woods there is a small cabin.
And in the end, I am by the fire, holding my baby, warming.
I don't know if he survives the cold from the icy water. Sometimes he does and sometimes not. But I get those few days with him, at least, I saved him, I saved us.
In this version today, we get warm, we get food, we get hidden, we get well, we survive.
Because: Miracles Happen
And a 4 month old baby survived the flood of the tsunami after being washed out of her parents arms. Rescue workers found her in rubble, 3 days later, and returned her to her parents.
I don't know why this story played in my head, why I needed to construct it, why I had to save Otto in this way. But it gave my heart some kind of strength. And I'm so happy to hear of THIS true story. Among all of the untold ones about the children who are gone from their parents arms forever.
I cry for them too.
Losing Otto has made every story of children's deaths real. And one that kept playing in my head was one from the Holocaust. I had heard a story sometime in my life of soldiers taking babies from mother's arms and throwing them off bridges.
This story is too hard for me to process, that instant of life changing to death, without need, with such shock.
So, in my story,
I am in line, on a bridge, being taken to a camp among my family and people from my town, my baby in my arms. A soldier takes my baby, we are over a river, the bridge 30 feet or so above the water, and it's cold, it's fall. It's twilight.
He throws my baby over the railing and without a hesitation I rush over the rail too. Into the cold cold water. The baby's blanket is white, so I can see it even in the last light of day, 10 feet below the surface. I grab him. Bullets come into the water, but they don't find us. I swim out towards the edge of the river, and there are trees there, making dark, making shade. We are hidden.
We move a little farther down, into the trees, into the woods, in the water. The soldiers give up, they move on, I hear people crying.
We get out of the water, very cold. I hold him close to get any heat I have.
A little ways into the woods there is a small cabin.
And in the end, I am by the fire, holding my baby, warming.
I don't know if he survives the cold from the icy water. Sometimes he does and sometimes not. But I get those few days with him, at least, I saved him, I saved us.
In this version today, we get warm, we get food, we get hidden, we get well, we survive.
Because: Miracles Happen
And a 4 month old baby survived the flood of the tsunami after being washed out of her parents arms. Rescue workers found her in rubble, 3 days later, and returned her to her parents.
I don't know why this story played in my head, why I needed to construct it, why I had to save Otto in this way. But it gave my heart some kind of strength. And I'm so happy to hear of THIS true story. Among all of the untold ones about the children who are gone from their parents arms forever.
I cry for them too.
Friday, January 14, 2011
Headstone
We have finally gotten around to designing Otto's headstone. Choosing the color is the hardest. Because it's gonna be there for a long time.
It feels good to put such care into it. It will be nice to go to the cemetery and be proud of it instead of the little plastic marker that is there now.
We put flowers and totems around it. Hummingbirds and turtles, but it needs an honorable marker. And something about the new year this year, I was ready to go and just make it happen.
Just made the down payment.
Would it suck to work at a place that makes headstones? Most people are sad that you work with. Would you have to stifle your good mood? It's probably satisfying too. The guy I talked to today reminded me of Dan Akroyd with a mid-western accent and said he missed the birds in the winter up there (in Washington). He liked my parakeets over the phone.
We chose a graphic with a hummingbird and flowers. They'll start designing some mocks for us and we'll get to see them next week. I can't wait. It feels WONDERFUL to do something for Otto.
I miss him so much. Two close people to me have lost loved ones lately. A husband, a brother. I grieve for them and then I grieve for Otto. I grieve for his big earlobes. Like my mom's and my sister's. I miss those earlobes so much. I miss the kisses I would have logged on them by now.
But for a couple more weeks I think seriously about granite. Granite with green flecks, blue flecks, light, dark. What do I want to see when we go there? I always thought I'd want it to be the grey that looks so nice and stately. But with all the options this headstone place offers, we feel like taking a chance and going with something like "evergreen."
I'll post a picture when it's done.
It feels good to put such care into it. It will be nice to go to the cemetery and be proud of it instead of the little plastic marker that is there now.
We put flowers and totems around it. Hummingbirds and turtles, but it needs an honorable marker. And something about the new year this year, I was ready to go and just make it happen.
Just made the down payment.
Would it suck to work at a place that makes headstones? Most people are sad that you work with. Would you have to stifle your good mood? It's probably satisfying too. The guy I talked to today reminded me of Dan Akroyd with a mid-western accent and said he missed the birds in the winter up there (in Washington). He liked my parakeets over the phone.
We chose a graphic with a hummingbird and flowers. They'll start designing some mocks for us and we'll get to see them next week. I can't wait. It feels WONDERFUL to do something for Otto.
I miss him so much. Two close people to me have lost loved ones lately. A husband, a brother. I grieve for them and then I grieve for Otto. I grieve for his big earlobes. Like my mom's and my sister's. I miss those earlobes so much. I miss the kisses I would have logged on them by now.
But for a couple more weeks I think seriously about granite. Granite with green flecks, blue flecks, light, dark. What do I want to see when we go there? I always thought I'd want it to be the grey that looks so nice and stately. But with all the options this headstone place offers, we feel like taking a chance and going with something like "evergreen."
I'll post a picture when it's done.
Friday, January 7, 2011
Ambulance
Love and death.
Life and death.
Life and love.
I saw an ambulance by the coffee shop today, pushing Luna by in the stroller.
Are you a person who sees and ambulance with lights on and thinks about that time when...
For me it is this:
I gave birth
On the floor of my living room by the heater.
After 26 hours, I gave all that I had,
and gave birth to my first child.
And turned around to look at him
And I couldn't see him
Because the midwives were around him.
And I said, Why aren't you giving him to me,
And they said, Are you on the cord? Move off the cord,
And I found the thin and rubbery cord on the floor
And lifted my body away from it,
Sitting on the wood floor, stunned and confused,
Out of breath and still,
And moved to where I could see him.
I put my fingers on his body,
Wet and new.
They said, Does this baby have a name?
And I said Otto
We said his name,
and told him about the stars and the trees
And all the things he needed to be here for
And a tall man with a black uniform came in
And took him away in his big hands
To an ambulance with flashing lights
A tall man in a black uniform
Held my son
He was gentle and soft with my little baby,
Rushing outside into the cool summer night
And we followed behind in the car.
Life and death.
Life and love.
I saw an ambulance by the coffee shop today, pushing Luna by in the stroller.
Are you a person who sees and ambulance with lights on and thinks about that time when...
For me it is this:
I gave birth
On the floor of my living room by the heater.
After 26 hours, I gave all that I had,
and gave birth to my first child.
And turned around to look at him
And I couldn't see him
Because the midwives were around him.
And I said, Why aren't you giving him to me,
And they said, Are you on the cord? Move off the cord,
And I found the thin and rubbery cord on the floor
And lifted my body away from it,
Sitting on the wood floor, stunned and confused,
Out of breath and still,
And moved to where I could see him.
I put my fingers on his body,
Wet and new.
They said, Does this baby have a name?
And I said Otto
We said his name,
and told him about the stars and the trees
And all the things he needed to be here for
And a tall man with a black uniform came in
And took him away in his big hands
To an ambulance with flashing lights
A tall man in a black uniform
Held my son
He was gentle and soft with my little baby,
Rushing outside into the cool summer night
And we followed behind in the car.
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