mysteryoriley

This is probably not a place Owen would have wanted to visit this time of year.  Maybe.  How could I know, having never asked him that question?  He was somewhat interested in this past summer’s plans to spend a week here in Boston during the 4th of July.  That was our plan.  Dave and I had scheduled the time off work, and thought this would be a great place to spend our anniversary (July 4th).  We invited Owen to come with us, see a bit of history, take in a Red Sox game, and visit with Lara and Jason.  He said he would think about it.  He didn’t seem all that interested.  He preferred staying at home.  But, he thought about it, and we revisited the invitation a few times, and why it might be fun to take the trip together.

We all know what happened to our summer.  It disappeared in tears.  We didn’t get the chance to make that trip with Owen.  We didn’t get the chance to celebrate his 21st birthday with him.  We got to celebrate his life at his memorial service. 

I vaguely remember July 4th with Dave.  We drove downtown, parked the car, and walked along the river.  We watched the fireworks from the bridge on Washington Street, my tear-streaked cheeks, and Dave’s warm hand holding mine.  I took some pictures of the fireworks.  For some reason, I wanted to remember that night.  I wanted to remember that we were standing over the river where Owen was found.  I wanted to remember that we weren’t in Boston together, but separated by time and place.  I wanted to remember that I would never be able to talk with Owen again about Independence Day, or any other day, but that fireworks would go on year after year.

Spending this week in Boston, in the cold weather with snow on the ground, without my family, here for my job, are additional painful reminders of all that won’t happen.  They are also reminders that life goes on.  I had dinner with Lara and Jason last night, and life went on.

I met a wonderful group of high school and university educators from Mexico this week.  We happened to end up a few times outside the entry to the hotel, shivering in the cold, waiting for cabs, or returning from nights spent at work (me), or evenings on the town (them).  They were friendly and engaging, wanting to practice their English, while I practiced my Spanish, with the occasional French phrase thrown in when no one could remember either English or Spanish words to help with our communication.  What we discovered most often, was that laughter was our universal language, so we laughed together.

After the others went to their rooms tonight, one man, the Dean of Chemistry, at a university situated on the border of Texas and Mexico, stayed behind to talk with me.  I don’t know why he lingered.  But, in short order, we talked in our broken foreign languages about our families.  He told me his older brother died when he was 14, and his brother was 23.  This was the brother with whom he was closest.  I saw the pain in his eyes, his face, and his posture, as he talked about their time together, and the fact that he was unable to say goodbye at the end, being in a different town too far away to reach the hospital in time.  He is 44 now, and 30 years later, the pain is just as real, just as vivid.  I told him I had lost my son this year, and that I, too, was unable to say goodbye, because we couldn’t find him.  The Dean reached out his hand, I took hold, and he said, “Thank you for sharing your pain with me.  I don’t know what it’s like to lose a son.  I remember watching my mother lose her son, though, and I knew I couldn’t help.”  I told him I don’t know what it’s like to lose a brother, but I watch my older son in his grief, and I know I can’t help. 

We go through grief alone, in our personal experiences of it.  And, somehow we keep meeting up with others who share loss, through their experiences of it.  It’s an odd community, almost secret, as we separate ourselves from the crowd, waiting while our friends laugh their way up elevators.  We stay behind and brave the cold, so we can have conversations we couldn’t have imagined on our way from our cabs to the entryways of hotels. 

This morning (yesterday now), I awoke to a song on the hotel radio alarm clock that I haven’t heard in a long time.  Owen discovered Talking Heads when he was in his mid-teens.  He liked David Byrne’s awkwardness (or was it just his act?), and thought his music was cool for its time.  Waking up to this song was another reminder of my separateness from anyone who hasn’t lost a child.  The words are frighteningly real for me, but had I not lost a son to a river, I might never have heard it the same way.  I first heard it in my early 20s, and at that time it made me think of a new-age baptismal hymn. 

I woke as most other days, crying, and missing Owen so much I can barely move.  When the song was over, I waited for another one to come along and remove the cloud over my bed.  Instead, the local station played Wayward Son and Fire and Rain.  It appeared the hits were gonna keep on comin’, so I got up and started my day in an upright position.  Only now, when I know my head will soon hit the pillow, do I dive back in the river, baptismal or abysmal, I can’t tell the difference anymore.  They seem so much the same now. 

And, it’s too cold here in Boston to stand outside and hope for another group of people to come along with different stories.  Maybe we can bring Nat, Anna, and Ruby with us next summer, and take pictures of fireworks together.  The Charles River is sure to run alongside our picnic blanket, and hopefully by then, none of us will want to dive in.

Song for the night:  Take Me to The River, Talking Heads

http://youtube.com/watch?v=QmEBlrRRMBQ

~ by Linda on December 7, 2007.

Posted in child loss, children, death, family, friends, grief, learning, Life, mothering, music, mystery, parenting, work, writing
Tags: Boston, Charles River, David Byrne, Emmitt Owen Riley, Linda Siniard, Massachusetts, Michael Nathan Riley, Talking Heads