Sunday, December 20, 2015

Dear Brian,

You left us over four years ago and still something in me can't accept your absence. I have your picture on my computer, on the bookcase in the living room, on the wardrobe in the bedroom. Anything anyone says about Long Beach or Riverside, or Woodland Hills brings back floods of memories. When I see a young man that has the same general body type you had, I look at him longingly, studying every move, wanting so much to find more of you, watching the young man as he departs and out of my view, contemplating what it was that drew me to him.

We just celebrated your nephew's second birthday yesterday, and your childhood kept jumping at us, the way you liked to take things apart, fix things, build things, figuring the parts, adjusting this and that around the house whenever you saw something that needed done. He is like that, and I can't help reminiscing about your youth as I watch his curiosity and earnest spirit. You would have loved being an uncle again. You were so attentive to your niece when she came up to visit, teaching her to fish, encouraging her to be patient.

Your friends are scattered; I heard Kalen got married; Janet finished school...
Most of them befriended me on Facebook for a while; they read about you as I attempted to piece together your early years. By now, everyone has other pursuits; all trying to stay healthy and sane.
Now and then I see posts from Johnny, now all grown up, as he recounts his athletic events, the pursuits he loved and shared with his neighbor, and big brother Brian.

I have not heard about Butters; I'm sure she settled down a bit and grew to love her new digs. Newkie has adjusted well to the Oregon weather, accepting indoor living for most of the rainy months. She is well, and might just have memories of California when she finds a patch of sun and stretches herself in its warmth.

A part of me expects to see you up in Oregon this holiday, giving up your friends and your parties to join your elderly parents for yet another wet Christmas that keeps you indoor. Yet, by now, you might have discovered all the slopes with lots of powder just a couple of hours away from us, and the trip would then be a winter mecca for you and your friends.

Glad you were in our lives for all those years, son. Glad we got to know and love and cherish you.
We'll be thinking of you till our last breath.
Love you much,
Mom and Dad

Sunday, September 22, 2013

Last post.

This is the last picture we had of me on one side, Brian next to me, his fiance' Janet, Pia, my daughter and Jason her husband, and  Ken on the opposite side.
The date, July 2, 2011 was our anniversary, and we were most happy to have two of our children and their loved ones  celebrate with us at Redfish, here in Port Orford, Oregon.

If you had asked me on this date what we were most proud of, we would have told you, without hesitation, that we were most proud of the people our children chose to associate with, and the people they chose to spend their future with. Brian, our youngest, had just become engaged. He and Janet were most happy, and we were all celebrating our good fortunes.

I'm closing this blog. I thank you for your sweet words of support these past two years.

Wednesday, August 21, 2013

When you fall into a sinkhole...

If you want to know why I can't seem to find words these days is because
you can't hear my words
after I've fallen in the sinkhole of grief,
and can't seem to  find my way out.
I am still threading water, coming up for air.

I can smile when
this little clip of him= Gobble-Gobbling
pops up
in my cache
of photos I seem to use as my raft.

At other times, I sink deeper and deeper, worrying about what I should have done,
like calling him the evening of his death
teaching him the very skill
that he needed to survive that night.

I search for his voice, his face. in every one I meet.

A short loop plays in my head over and over again
where I can see what I think happened that early Sunday
when he was hit, ended up on the pavement, passed out, died.

A sinkhole has no exit paths.

Friday, August 9, 2013

Writing is just an excuse...

Writing is just an excuse for me to talk to you face to face as though I'm in the car with you, stopped at a crossroads. I want to ask you so many questions.

We have not cooked the stuff you liked, for fear of 'losing it".
We take turns telling the other about how just thinking of you chokes us.

Out of the blue, I think of how you loved to nap at the strangest times.
I think of  how you played with your pets, how you managed to create a household where both cat and dog had their spaces. You worked so hard at getting that house so you could have a dog.
Newkie still goes out a window at night, at will.
I suppose that Butters still devours her food in one bite.

You asked about God and the afterlife.
I still do.

Wednesday, July 17, 2013

Two years ago...

Today is not an easy day.  Our loss
is not any less two years after
your death. 

You were there one day
gone the next.

No fault of your own.

Homicide, said the death certificate.
Battered by another was the cause of death.

The irony?
You were among friends when it happened, at a party next door someone, whose name shall never be repeated by me, took offense to something you said to him, or his girlfriend, they claim,  and that someone followed you when you left their residence and clobbered you from behind. 

When you fell, and collapsed, that someone fled the scene. Your friend called his own brother for assistance in moving you from the pavement to their house, where they let you sleep off whatever was wrong with you. They had no idea what was wrong with you.

You never woke up.
The next morning, the police was called, and you were declared dead.

Later in the week, the police arrested the culprit and held him on a million dollar bail.
The case is still open.

As is my wound.
We are still bleeding.
We are still waiting.

Nothing will change the fact that you are forever gone from our lives and we will miss you throughout our days. 

Tuesday, June 25, 2013

It's all good, people.

(Chris Baron and Brian)

I met most of Brian's friends, with the exceptions of his childhood friends, at his memorial, school friends, friends and spouses of friends he knew for the last ten years, and his colleagues at L3.
I met many more at the building of his memorial garden too.
I knew nothing of them.

This picture of him and Chris Baron show that both of them sport a bit of a beard!
Perhaps even a mustache.
And the smile says it all, with the thumb to cement it all: It's all good, people!

Yes, the thumb was up in most of his pictures with friends, letting it be known that things were fine, were all a go!

It's all good, people, he'd say, let's play a game. Why, I just thought of this one...

Thursday, June 13, 2013

Father's Day at Disneyland.

Our family spent Father's Day at Disneyland. Ken had decided early in his fatherhood status that getting us all to Disneyland would be the gift he wanted for himself on Father's Day. The kids loved it! So, from the time he was in diapers, no, in uterus, Brian experienced Disneyland with the family on Father's Day.

The day went something like this: I would complain that we couldn't possibly enjoy a place that was so predictable, year after year. The kids would protest loudly that it was a tradition and we couldn't break such a tradition; and Ken would respectfully nod in my direction and promise he'll think of something else or someplace else to go to the following year.

One year Brian convinced me that I should join him on the Matterhorn Ride, even though I was not fond of such rides. I hated it. For years since, as each new ride appeared to thrill the family more and more, I sat behind and waited for them to get their fill of the thrill.

One year Brian convinced me that the ride at Space Mountain or...was not as bad as I thought, and that I would actually enjoy it. I went, and just a few minutes into the ride, I was furious. When the ride stopped, I was so mad I could barely contain myself.

Yet, aside from my aversion to rides, the evenings at Disneyland turned out great. Later, when friends and significant others joined us, we hardly saw our children, except for the end activity, a ride at the Pirates of the Caribbean and a meal at the Cajun Cafe overlooking the Pirates'.

Later, as Ken drove us home, each child donning some hat or trinket from his/her favorite ride, we'd talk about the day, and everyone, including me, would agree that Disneyland had not disappointed us on such a memorable day.