Again and Again

Mother and Son Connection Before the Grave

Introductory music on audio was created by my Spirit Son, Henry, as a young musician. It remains untitled. Enjoy!

Autumnal grace at our camp in Northern Wisconsin

Again and again

I will feel its powerful undercurrent tug so fiercely at times that I

could drown.

drown in sorrow

cold heavy feet trod to the shore

where an undeniable truth swirls in shallows

comfort washes over,

brings warmth,

and I trust it.

stronger now

my suffering behind me,

until

This morning, it is time to stir up and sort through memories of the beginning—the beginning of life with a spirit son.

I have racked up two solid minutes of resistance, dinking around with the pens and pencils in my beautiful brown ceramic vase with the perfect wave of “rick rack” design embedded all around the tubby little neck.

I decided on a purple pen with a soft grip and the name of our band, Harmonious Wail, printed on the side of it in a jaunty font. “Who picked THAT design out?” I wonder as I reach. I have assorted colors to choose from, but purple feels nice.

How “My Spirit Son” story begins is easy to write. The syntax can flow easily because I’ve written it in my mind a million times.

Cranking up the gumption to do it, however, will be a slow, cautious, grind.

Today is a Tuesday in January 2024. Geez, 2024. Henry has been dead for nearly nine years, but it truly seems like just a few years, as I feel him right here today, right now, encouraging me. The feeling is the same tingling warmth of an all-around buzz that is just as vibrant and close and intense as it was at the beginning when this new chapter was all fresh and new and mysterious. I always knew from the start it was him. I knew he traveled through the veil, to wrap his arms around me and vibrate all the love in his heart to heal me.

“Does that feel comforting?’ people would ask.

“Of Course!” I replied. But the grief that followed the encounter can make me feel rotten to the core, and tender, and sweet.

This is the language I speak now when I speak of my spirit son and our encounters.

This is the new me. It’s never just one thing with me anymore. Never.

Always two or more things, like sad and grateful; or pissed off and humored; or blessed and confused.

Or broken and healed.

I know Henry will not go further away from me with time. We will continue to exist together. Each of us is on our side of the physical and non-physical. He is right here beside me, like an apprentice, to help write this piece. At this moment, the vibration is very gentle, like a shadow of a cloud.

So far, in this piece, he has contributed three words:

“syntax”, “undercurrent”, and “until”

And I have cried three tears in the knowing of it.

These words did not come from me. I was in search of a word, and the search instantly stopped as I was told the word. It felt quick and precise and exactly like being told a word by a live person sitting next to me on my right, except he is not alive, so I was told instead through silent communication to my mind.

The plethora of episodes of this nature have stacked up like Tetris and I have the urge to spill them all out simultaneously.

But first, I’ll share something I held secret.

Secret because when it happened, years before he died, I didn’t want to think about it. It was too scary.

One fine day, about seventeen years ago, while at the kitchen sink, washing up the dishes, my mind wandered and I daydreamed about our two sons, Henry and Emmett. The bright sun shone on this Saturday. . . . . a relaxed day off. The boys were 22 and 19 respectively. They were both living the dream, creating music together, traveling, learning, working, and sparring with each other’s wit and wisdom. My daydream swept me away to a place of whimsy as I played with images and pictures of the future.

“Hmmm” I thought to myself, “I wonder if Henry will get married someday? I wonder if he’ll have kids. I’m sure Emmett will have kids, but I wonder if Henry will?”

My hands lifted bubbles from within a shallow ceramic bowl as my mind created a mother’s image of what Henry might look like as a settled-down and mature man. I started this game with him first, because he is the oldest. I pictured him still tall and lanky but more solid with maturity……the world was all mine as I pictured a red flannel shirt and a comfy chair for him. But these images instantly flashed off.

I was startled.

I was stopped.

My beautiful daydream turned into static. I saw zigzags of black and white static. Like the old TV screens at the end of the night. My station had just quit. No more scenes to be seen. No more future. Dead.

A chill ran down my spine.

“Don’t show me that,” my mind said to the Universe. “I don’t want to see that.”

This fuzzy screen was frightful and I fiercely pushed myself away from the soapy sink as if I could escape this vision of the future if I just stepped back. Quickly, I snatched the red terry dish towel and wiped my hands of this image to put it behind me and never tell a soul. I didn’t know it was a premonition. I hoped it wasn’t a premonition, but it was.

2015, a lovely, starry, breezy Spring evening in late March. Emmett had cooked dinner on the charcoal grill. A bit of a “meat fest” with sausages, chicken, and steak.

Henry had been dead for a few weeks. He had left the three of us to hobble along, lick our wounds, take the slow, easy paths, and live up to our new self-acclaimed name, “The Three-Legged Dog.”

The Three-legged Dog sat around the backyard campfire now, sipping a beer, and taking solace in the blue smoke as it rose to meet the elderberry branches overhead.

If Henry were still alive, the guitars would come out. But grief steals the singing spirit and keeps it safe until one is ready.

No one was ready.

We were a subdued three.

Supportive comrades.

And loving.

The crunchy old camp chairs that sufficed are pulled up pretty close to the blaze, and the conversation turns to Henry. Emmett has razor-sharp memories. He talks about riding in each of Henry’s cars. He talks about flat tires in Texas and the old man who rescued them. And then the ice storms in Illinois when Henry would not give up the wheel to best keep them safe. It took 24 hours to get through the state driving only in the ruts made by the semis in front of them. But they made it home for Christmas.

We knew of these experiences from the past, but have found that stories of good times once again told, do soothe the soul. As it turns out.

In a silent bubble of a moment, a sudden feeling of truth-telling rippled up from deep inside of me. My throat felt thick because I felt the urge to share my secret.

Maybe it is a story that would help Emmett somehow. It’s not a happy one, but it happened. We are living it.

I took a deep breath and stood up. I rested my boot on the rocks of the fire pit, and began:

“One day, I was washing the dishes…”

I kept my eyes on Emmett. I was shaky in the telling.

“And so, in the end…I always knew that somehow Henry wouldn’t live long.”

Emmett looked at me from across the fire. In the glow, I could see his head tilted and an expression of knowing. His gaze was square upon me.

“Me too,” he expressed.