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.

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. 

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...

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.  

I found your Mother's Day card.

Mom-

Every weekend

when I talk with

you guys I feel

more and more happy

to be alive. Thank

you so much for this

wonderful gift

      Love,

      Brian

Thank you, son, for this gift.

White lights.

You walked these aisles
and stood at the check-out stand
looking ahead to
the next event
the next opportunity to
fill your cart to the brim
each time learning to maneuver
life's supermarket
with more ease and style.

Shiny lights reflecting
surfaces scrubbed clean
footprints
spills
written orders of importance
and sequence of events
all traces of previous lives
erased every hour
on the hour.

We live private lives in public places, yet, few traces
of ourselves exist anywhere.
Except in a mother's heart where it all started.

You liked music..

In the third grade, watching your sister play piano, you decided you wanted to learn piano too. So, we  enrolled you with Ms Galen, right there on Topanga, and dropped you off every Monday evening, right before dinner, for your half-hour lesson. The first evening you returned excited, telling Pia that in no time you and she could play a duet.

On subsequent evenings, Miss Galen sent notes home, written right on the book, with instructions to practice more. You sat and practiced when Dad or I or Pia reminded you to do so.

On your first recital, nine months later, you bowed at the audience and played your piece with confidence. You had seen such recitals for a few years, and you admired the little ones who could barely reach the foot pedals. You thought any day, the piano could be conquered.

When Michael began taking piano lessons with Miss Galen, your enthusiasm returned.

But you stopped piano when you reached Junior High, and there was nobody home by then to see that you practiced most days. It was a busy time for me, having just started my job as principal in the Antelope Valley I got home late most evenings.

In Junior High you took up flute and played it for a couple years until you needed braces, and could no longer work the flute.

Later, in college, you picked up guitar, and then got a gift of a special guitar from Mike Connoway nephew of Billy Strayhorn, the music writer and arranger for Duke Wellington. Mr. Connoway told your Dad that as long as you were interested you could keep that guitar.

Here, in this picture, I see you play with Michael, who ended up becoming a professional musician and musicologist, encouraging you to stay with music.

We were glad to find the Connoway guitar among your possessions.