The Ghost of You

Everywhere I go,  you are with me. 

The memories of you, they either come along, or they meet me.  
But they are always there.  
I cannot escape them, nor do I want to.  
I always want you with me, even if it hurts.

I go to grab a coffee, you are there.  

Iced Caramel Machiatto. 

I go to the grocery store, you are there.  

Hot sauce, cereal, Tostitos cheese dip.  
Did you get chips?  
Can you make that casserole?
The one with the chicken and noodles, you know, my favorite? 

Today I asked Alexa to turn on some music, background noise for the dog, and you are there.

"I'm not alright, you're not alright . . .don't let me go".

I wake up to a new message, a loss mom . . .she's struggling. Her son also overdosed, we share our stories, and you are there.

I see you. You are so cold, so pale, so still.  In your Ole Miss long sleeve.  You're not breathing.

You especially hang with me on Mondays.  
The ghost of you.  
It's always harder on Mondays.  And today is no exception.  
It's a rainy Monday.  
An August Monday, and you are there.

"Mom, why don't you like fall and winter?  I love winter!  Summer is too hot."

But John, I say, you love summer too.  You love the lake and boating.  

"Mom", he says, "I have black hair.  I get hot.  Fall is all pumpkin spice and flannel.  Football and harvest.  Winter is snow and Christmas.  You know how much I love Christmas mom."

Yes, John, I know you love Christmas. But I still love summer.  I feel so much happier in the summer when the sun shines.  
Fall makes me sad.  
August makes me sad.  
The weather changes, the leaves fall, school starts, the air is different, it's just different, wrong.  It's sad.  And now, John, now  Fall is when you died.  I'll always hate Fall I think.

I get a snap chat of your new nephew.  And you are there.  

You were over 9 pounds.  Black hair, complete with sideburns.  Your shoulders were even bigger than your head.  You hated this story.  No medication! You had a ridge across the top of your head - I used to laugh and say it was an impression from my pelvis bone.  I still believe it.  Dad thought the doctor was going to pull your head off.  He looked worse than I did.  I had "freckles" all over the sides of my face the next day . . . she told me they were popped blood vessels.  Dad said the veins in her arms were bulging as she pulled you out.  Anyway, the new baby is perfect and so cute.

I think about the presents I bought for the baby, from you.  And you are there.

I got him a present from you.  They have a line called High-Speed Daddy or something,  and they make woobies for babies.  Who would have thought?  I also got him a sleeper, it looks just like your multi-cam ACU's complete with boots.  I wasn't going to.  Why bring even more tears?  But my friend reminded me that you'd want to be there.  I bought a card from you, for your sister, that said, "So you made a human?"  Remember that meme you guys thought was funny?  I think Kate found it.  Was it a lemur?  Holding a baby lemur saying "I made dis".  I thought it seemed like your sense of humor.  Even though we are all "low speed", we try. 

I empty the dishwasher, and you are there.

Coffee cups.  Sic cups.  Baby bottles.  I missed it so much when you started filling your cup with  Jameson instead of coffee.  You used to like Gloria Jeans Butter Toffee for the Keurig.  The Jameson made you forget, or so you thought.  I think it just made you sadder, really.  That's what the drugs did too.  They made you sadder.  Less you.  Adding to your trouble, never moving you away from it.  Just making it deeper, darker . . . so much worse.  If only you could have seen that the darkness was a lie.  It was never an answer.  Just a hideous lie.  

I get a message on Facebook, it's a message a friend thinks I'll relate to.  It's about grief, pain, loss.  And you are there.

That pain?  You left that here when you departed.  It's no longer a part of you.  Not one thing is weighing heavy on you anymore.  You are completely free.   But we carry that pain with us now.  We are the ones weighed down.  We carry your loss like an anchor - and we are at the bottom of the sea.  You know how you loved to help people?  To listen to them?  Well, if you could hear the people I talk to each day, the mothers whose hearts have been ripped out.  It would break your heart.  (Would that knowledge change the stories I wonder?) Your story.  We are doing it one day at a time with each others help.  Holding each other up.  Like you would.  

I build houses out of magnets with the baby, and you are there.

You were trapped and we were helpless.  We couldn't break through and you couldn't break out.  I'm trying to be brave, John.  I'm trying to have courage.  I'm trying to be who you would want me to be, as much as I can.  I am willing to live with some darkness.  I am willing to feel it, to walk in it.  I would have gladly taken your darkness if it would have saved you. Because I know the ending to this story, and it's not sad.  The darkness doesn't win.  The hard part is the waiting.  The trusting in what you can't see.

Since I'm already in tears, I pick up my computer, and you are there.

I haven't written about you in a blog post for a while.  I haven't stopped writing, I just changed the address for my words,  for a little while.  You are still what I write about, I just needed a different audience. Writing hurts.  The words are painful to look at.  I needed to write for the people who get it, who need it, the ones that read and feel heard, understood.  The ones that share in the despair.

I check in with a new friend, another loss mom, who lives in Canada, and you are there.

I met her through my article writing.  You loved Canada.  It was a nickname even, for you.  You stole my t-shirts from our trip there.  She needed some answers.  She needed to connect with another heart that understood hers.  One that understands how devasting this particular loss is.  I'm amazed every time I submit an article and the acceptance email shows up.  How God has used the words to bring so many of us together.  I'm thankful that we can throw out a lifeline and keep another broken heart from sinking. 

I check a few dates on my phone calendar, and you are there.

It's Monday, and it's still August, and I miss you. I've been typing on and off all day, as time allowed.  And each time I re-read the words, you are here, the tears are here, and I wonder how we will get through this.  I wonder how I'll finish this post.  I wonder if I want to.  

And now another night has come, the lake is still and a path across it twinkles with the light of the moon, and I remember a night not so long ago, where I stood and looked up at the evening sky, with a million stars spread across it, and I wondered if you could see them too?  If you are reclining with the One who made the stars, and I wonder if he pauses to catch my tears as the two of you visit.  And if He does, does he tell you whose they are? 

And I think about Heaven, and I know that you are there.