Cat hair, pizza, and nacho crumbs…
are all part of what I think was dislodged from our keyboard this afternoon. Why do I think that? Because after Anna cleaned the mouse, I was somehow compelled to do the same for the keyboard. It was all of these – gross, comforting, and a leap into the future.
I don’t actually want to leap into the future. The future means, a future without Owen, and I really, really don’t want to go there. But, there is where we already are, so I can only go where my family already is, right?
After Nat, Anna, and Ruby left the house, and started their trip to the city for Laura’s birthday, I sat at the desk, and began my ritual of searching the internet for anything related to losing a child. I was glad to find plenty of others, whose lives have taken this turn into the unthinkable, and are writing about their experiences.
Funny, that phrase, “losing a child” seems so limited. It seems like a phrase that people who’ve lost someone under a certain age would most appropriately use, and yet, a child is a child, no matter how old they are, if they die before you (his or her parent). Owen died before us…he was our child…and he will always be our child. He was 20. And, he was a young 20.
My father died before his parents, and I remember my mom talking about how awful their journey was. Hers was, too, and my brother and I were witness to her agony, but she referred to Daddy’s parents often, as she couldn’t imagine what it was like to lose a child. Daddy was 40 when he died. Still a child.
I picked up the can of pressurized air, and began cleaning the keyboard. Whoa! I was catapulted back in time (not into the future), to the days when I used to come out of my bedroom in the middle of the night to make my way to the kitchen for water or milk, and Owen would be sitting right here, typing away at this very same keyboard. Often (and what was made clear by today’s exercise in cleaning), he would have one cat on his lap, another covering the desk, and another under the chair. Our cats were so attached to him, and he gave them every reason to remain so. He loved them, scratched them, rubbed them, and played with them without a care for the hour, the date, or the fact that they were a distraction from his research.
And, there was always food. Owen loved to eat right here at this desk, and it was usually something he found either easy, or worth the effort, meaning pizza or nachos. Pizza was easy, as we almost always kept some frozen version of it for late nights, and much-too-busy days; and nachos were his favorite personal meal, with all his variations - too many recipes to share right now.
I don’t think I have ever cleaned the keyboard this way. I’m not sure I want to do it again. But, I can assure you, that our cats were here with Owen during his long nights of seeking information that would make his life more “knowable” or entertaining, I can’t know – and I don’t know for sure, that he thought the internet would do that for him. However, he spent a lot of time here, doing just that, searching…so I think he thought the amount of information out there, would somehow make this life more bearable.
No need to describe the contents of the unseen parts of our keyboard. You have an imagination, right? Just think - fuzz, stuff, solid matter, and belly button lint. Although, I’m certain there was no actual belly button lint, it was much the same as that discovery…this stuff is here, I want it to go away, and I don’t want anyone to know I found it.
Owen was…so many things. He was not afraid of belly button lint. He was comfortable talking about gross things, about difficult friends, about awful thoughts that had come to him in the night. He was also comfortable talking about how important life choices were, and that without knowing yourself, you couldn’t be expected to make good life choices. I think he knew himself well. He always assured me that he did, and I have to believe that he knew what he knew.
I miss Owen’s late nights here. I feel protective when someone else sits at our computer. Yet, Owen never did. He offered up our keyboard to anyone who wanted to know something they couldn’t find in our books. And, as time would have it, our books couldn’t keep up with our electronic information.
But, cat hair, pizza, and nacho crumbs will likely remain a part of this desk and this keyboard. These are family favorites, all. And, since we spend so much time here, I am likely to write a similar post in another few years. Maybe, I’ll actually make a ritual out of cleaning our hardware. But, that’s not likely…I would rather spend my time searching. As did Owen. Owen Riley, master researcher. Emmitt Owen Riley, our child.
Funny how poignant such simple things can be when they are somehow attached to someone we love. Memories are found in the strangest places-cleaning out a keyboard with cat hair, pizza, and nacho crumbs in its dark recesses. Each item, a memory in itself. And then there’s the memory of Owen-typing away far into the night, looking for what? Information? Answers? A connection to something or someone? Perhaps the same thing I’m looking for, as I sit here night after night. I don’t really know the reason, but it fulfills me, especially if I get to write out my thoughts. It is the one place I can fully express what’s deep inside. And so we search…Lonnie