Canoe trip.

Quite often-mostly in summer- as I comb these beaches,  I see someone your size, six-four, with a lively dog, walking the shore. Down this path you and Butters ran up the knoll on the left and then disappeared at the mouth of Lake Garrison.

One summer, you and a friend were planning a canoe trip to the beach at about ten in the morning. It was way in the afternoon  when you finally took the canoe late across the mile or so space that separates our house from the beach,  the wind making it hard to paddle to the ocean by now. You worked hard, and I could tell, sitting on the deck, and spying through the binoculars, that the wind was making you work even harder than you had anticipated.

Then, I watched as you combed the beach for what seemed like an eternity. I kept hoping you had realized that winds don't disappear; that winds would make the return trip more treacherous.

An hour later, I could see you and your friend paddling against a strong current, and making little progress. Then, you disappeared from my viewfinder and I held my breath in anticipation.

Before I decided to send for help, before I warned your father of your demise, knowing how proud you were, you both walked in the front door, tired and disappointed, and asked Dad to help you retrieve the canoe back in a cove, surrounded by reeds. The three of you had quite a time getting that canoe, dragging it out toward the path that led to the parking area where the suv was waiting.

Cat people.

First, Samantha.

When I picked you up at nursery school, you were barely a toddler, still in diapers, Samantha had  spent the day

with you, in your pockets.  She was the runt of the litter. The rest of the babies had been selected by other families, earlier in the day. Samantha was the last one, and you volunteered to take her home with you even before I arrived at the end of the day to pick you up. 

That night, and every night, she slept with you, suckling on your thumb, probably too young to be separated from her mother. Through the years, she hid for everyone, but came out when you called her. When the earthquake pushed us out of the crumbling house, when the place was turned upside down with a new foundation and new buildings, Samantha found her spot in the garage and wintered there, coming out for you every morning when you walked back to the construction site to feed and water and play with her before and after you went to school.

Samantha was eighteen when she died in a car accident.

You had grown up together.  

A friend brought you Newkie.

Newkie and I talk about you every morning and every evening when she cuddles up in bed with me, just the way she cuddled up with you. 

Into the Universe.

That telescope

waiting in the living room

the lens loose and grimy

the connections flimsy

and hesitant

told me 

that soon

you'd have it all down on the ground

in little pieces

a puzzle

you craved to

reconstruct

because

your goal

always

was 

to 

look at the universe

as your playground

not that you had more time

or more skills

or more dedication.

You just enjoyed 

the beauty

present in

intricate puzzles. 

Read my shirt.

Like music tunes

your t-shirts

were 

riffs

in your playful life.

They were part of your beat.

Stages.

 (Brian and Janet and Butters in Port Orford, July 4th weekend, 2011)

 (this one has a definite date, Michael's birthday party, 2011)

 (?)

 (in Port Orford, 2010)

 (with friends, from the haircut, @2010)

 (Brian and Newkie @2006)

(Brian at Cape Blanco, @2005)

I'm stuck in a ever-repeating loop,
Counting backwards
to find my way all the way back
like the time we
hiked Cape Blanco,
fighting the winds,
dodging heavy surf
all the way to the lighthouse.

You drove up all night,
to spend a few hours with us
on that Christmas Eve.
We picked you up in Eureka
a few times
when you were in a big
hurry
back to a
life without us.
I knew so little about your adult life.

I found out
a whole lot more
at your funeral.

What dreams become.

I have
no knowledge of this moment.
I can only guess the anticipation
expectation
the dream
you dreamt in this instant.

Early on...

Early on
you noticed how moods
change
when we walk together
from school,
picking acorns and walnuts
bird feathers and
pebbles
making our way home
on a sunny afternoon
you telling me that kindergarten
is a lot of busy work.


I smiled then
knowing full well
that teachers work hard to
make things flow
and keep boys
busy
in their seats
like coaches
try to keep little boys
focused on
chasing the ball
and not picking
daisies on the soccer field.


Later,
exhausted
with sweat and pain
you preferred pizza for a snack
instead of oranges and granola
after
soccer, basketball, baseball
tennis, golf, snowboarding, biking
with teams
or with boys in the neighborhood
in the pool
off the steep hills around us
at Shoup Park
chasing balls
each other
dreams
climbing trees
and mountains.

Daily
you
dressed up
responsibilities
with joyful noises
studying, working,
caring
exploring how
to become
less frustrated
by break-downs
heavy demands
how to know
all there is
to know
holding petals
of a daisy
or watching the flight
of a hummingbird.


And you're still
becoming
exploring
the unknown
without me
knowing your whereabouts.

At Christmas, though, I expect you sharing with me.