Six
I had a dream last night that T, a woman from my grief group, showed up at my door. I was surprised to see her; I didn't even think she remembered where I lived. When I opened the door she was crying, and holding a small baby.
She screamed at me, "You forgot!"
"I didn't..." I said, and then added, "Forgot what?"
"You forgot about today!" As she yelled the sky became dark and changed from day to night.
"I didn't."
The dream swirled into a grey mist and disappeared.
It doesn't even feel real anymore. It's like a faded wisp of a dream, or a fleeting glimpse of a past life… My old life up there; before I had more children, before I had dreams, before I had stability, happiness, and ecstasy. Everything from that time is dark and grey. I pushed it all into a corner of my memory to be forgotten and ignored. I hated everything about being there, and his death only cemented the fact that it was a terrible existence. I've joked to Curtis that if our children grow resentful and never want to see us again, the best place to move is there, because I'll never go back. We laugh, but I'm serious.
The memories of that night are old and musty now, swathed in depression and loneliness and buried under a weight of silken cobwebs. Six years is a long time. Today it feels like twenty, or fifty… it might as well be. Life goes on for the rest of the year and comes to a screeching halt as I turn over the calendar to a new month and see his name. November has become synonymous with grief.
Curtis forgot to remind his bosses about the day off, and only remembered last night as we were walking with the kids from house to house. He texted his superior, expecting some resistance, but as soon as he uttered, "My first son" his boss interrupted and told him to stay home. I don't think he's barely mentioned him at work before, I guess his boss knew by the phrasing. Even if nothing happens and the day goes perfect, I still need him here. Without him the stillness is crushing and it reminds me too much of wandering that tiny apartment in silence; clutching my burning scar and walking in circles, waiting for things to change.
I can pull the little cut of black hair out of his shadowbox and run my fingers through it. It's soft, and shining. Darker than my or Curtis' hair. It feels so strange in my hands. It is the hair of a dead thing. Someone who has not existed; or someone who flickered in and out of life so quickly that I missed it entirely. It is jarring, as though it too shouldn't exist and should have died with him… like all the little tiny pieces he left behind from the hair to stains of blood on white sheets should have disappeared into thin air the moment his heart stopped beating.
I wish I could remember more of him.
My father's poem is of particular comfort to me today. I have a vague memory of him coming in and handing the paper to me the day after, telling me he woke up that night in a cold sweat with a terrible nightmare of my baby dying. He almost called… but it was too late, around two in the morning. While he sat in bed shivering, I lay in a hospital across town holding my dead son. The next day when he got the call from my mother he said he wasn't surprised… the dream was so real. When he hung up, he wrote this poem and gave it to me that afternoon when he came to visit.
Jericho
my grandson was born yesterday
and died fifteen minutes later
his mother held him in life
his father in death
he slipped from hand to hand
and out of this world
as suddenly as he came
he left behind some hair
some handprints some photographs
eight months of memories
in his mother's body
soon after she became pregnant
my daughter dreamed his birth
she held him up his long black hair
and he spoke to her
My name is Jericho he said
and last night I dreamed his death
and woke in a sweat
my daughter is confused
she has given birth and there is no child
I hold her close
want to press my life into her
to somehow replace the one she's missing
our children's losses echo in us
like Joshua's trumpet
and we tremble in our helplessness
yesterday my grandson was born
and died fifteen minutes later
his mother carried him with love
his father held him to his heart
and though I did not meet him
as he rushed through
in his hurry to some other place
he flickers between us as I sit here
and hold my daughter's hand
and the walls come tumbling down
She screamed at me, "You forgot!"
"I didn't..." I said, and then added, "Forgot what?"
"You forgot about today!" As she yelled the sky became dark and changed from day to night.
"I didn't."
The dream swirled into a grey mist and disappeared.
It doesn't even feel real anymore. It's like a faded wisp of a dream, or a fleeting glimpse of a past life… My old life up there; before I had more children, before I had dreams, before I had stability, happiness, and ecstasy. Everything from that time is dark and grey. I pushed it all into a corner of my memory to be forgotten and ignored. I hated everything about being there, and his death only cemented the fact that it was a terrible existence. I've joked to Curtis that if our children grow resentful and never want to see us again, the best place to move is there, because I'll never go back. We laugh, but I'm serious.
The memories of that night are old and musty now, swathed in depression and loneliness and buried under a weight of silken cobwebs. Six years is a long time. Today it feels like twenty, or fifty… it might as well be. Life goes on for the rest of the year and comes to a screeching halt as I turn over the calendar to a new month and see his name. November has become synonymous with grief.
Curtis forgot to remind his bosses about the day off, and only remembered last night as we were walking with the kids from house to house. He texted his superior, expecting some resistance, but as soon as he uttered, "My first son" his boss interrupted and told him to stay home. I don't think he's barely mentioned him at work before, I guess his boss knew by the phrasing. Even if nothing happens and the day goes perfect, I still need him here. Without him the stillness is crushing and it reminds me too much of wandering that tiny apartment in silence; clutching my burning scar and walking in circles, waiting for things to change.
I can pull the little cut of black hair out of his shadowbox and run my fingers through it. It's soft, and shining. Darker than my or Curtis' hair. It feels so strange in my hands. It is the hair of a dead thing. Someone who has not existed; or someone who flickered in and out of life so quickly that I missed it entirely. It is jarring, as though it too shouldn't exist and should have died with him… like all the little tiny pieces he left behind from the hair to stains of blood on white sheets should have disappeared into thin air the moment his heart stopped beating.
I wish I could remember more of him.
My father's poem is of particular comfort to me today. I have a vague memory of him coming in and handing the paper to me the day after, telling me he woke up that night in a cold sweat with a terrible nightmare of my baby dying. He almost called… but it was too late, around two in the morning. While he sat in bed shivering, I lay in a hospital across town holding my dead son. The next day when he got the call from my mother he said he wasn't surprised… the dream was so real. When he hung up, he wrote this poem and gave it to me that afternoon when he came to visit.
Jericho
my grandson was born yesterday
and died fifteen minutes later
his mother held him in life
his father in death
he slipped from hand to hand
and out of this world
as suddenly as he came
he left behind some hair
some handprints some photographs
eight months of memories
in his mother's body
soon after she became pregnant
my daughter dreamed his birth
she held him up his long black hair
and he spoke to her
My name is Jericho he said
and last night I dreamed his death
and woke in a sweat
my daughter is confused
she has given birth and there is no child
I hold her close
want to press my life into her
to somehow replace the one she's missing
our children's losses echo in us
like Joshua's trumpet
and we tremble in our helplessness
yesterday my grandson was born
and died fifteen minutes later
his mother carried him with love
his father held him to his heart
and though I did not meet him
as he rushed through
in his hurry to some other place
he flickers between us as I sit here
and hold my daughter's hand
and the walls come tumbling down