Skip to main content

black shiny shoes

There are days when I simply dwell on the moment two officers stepped inside my home and said "I'm afraid we have bad news." 
I just sit and think of that exact time over and over.

Hours passed in those 5 or 6 seconds.
I lost every family member in my life and tried to decide how to respond in those moments. 
I moved thru each one with decisiveness and thought of the next steps after they said a name.

And yet I waited.

I waited what felt like an entire lifetime.
My soul screamed violently. 
"JUST FUCKING SAY IT" 
but even that took a lifetime.

"Do you know Josiah Brooks?" 

Oh God.

"That's our son" my husband replied instantly. He understood how long those moments were. 
I was dialed in on the officer's black shiny shoes. I could not take my eyes off of them. I felt myself leave my body. 
"You can't be here for this"
I felt it more than heard it.

Don't say it. 
I don't want to hear this. 

"We're sorry to tell you he's passed away."

Ever so often, I relive this moment over and over. I examine it from every angle. 
I look at it. 

Sometimes, I cry. Uncontrolled. Other times, I just stare at it. Like I did with those black shiny shoes. I just stare. 


Another 100 hours pass before we can ask.
"What happened?"

I spend a lot of time with this moment. 
A lot. 



Comments

Popular posts from this blog

part 3: the recipient

I didn't know how this would end when I began writing. I just knew I needed to pen my anger.  I had a lot of things I needed to get through: thoughts that take over my brain and I think about over and over. Knowing what I know about myself, I'm stuck here until I take the time to write it down. It's gonna be a lot. I need to write about what happened in the hours after his death, how I remember the last time I saw his face, what exactly I saw & how that April is sooooo separate from the April I am now. I've learned what that is: dissociation.  I've also realized I've used dissociation my entire life. I'm not ready to write about that yet. I need to write these facts down. Facts that sound a little too weird if you've never suffered the loss of a child. I have. So whatever I need is ok as long as it isn't harmful to me or anyone else.  In the middle of writing how angry I am about not having signs from my son, about this deep turmoil I'm addre...

the years that come after

It's not true what they say.  "The first year is the hardest."  That's so far from the truth.  My beloved friend and hair stylist lost her 14 year old son in a tragic gun accident 12 years ago.  Today, as I sat down in her chair I asked her "How long did it take you to enjoy the holiday season again?" In the middle of my question, my breath caught and burst into tears. She shared with me some things that are deeply private, but she did say it.  "The first year is not the hardest." That was exactly what I needed. It was permission. It was my acknowledgement.  I'm not crazy. I'm not losing my mind.  The first year isn't the hardest.  While there IS joy in my life, this year, the third Christmas without Enzo, has been more difficult than the others.  What do I do with that?  No one can answer that. Not even me. Moscato didn't work. Quiet doesn't work. Loud doesn't work.  Smiling doesn't work.  The only thing that HAS helped...

take a shower

Yesterday was two years.  I've taken a shower the evening of both anniversaries during the 10 minute window I believe Enzo pulled the trigger. It's the only place I feel safe from the clock. I can't stare at it. So sometime during my shower, the minute my son fired his gun comes and goes.  Or at least that's the plan. I miscalculated the time I was in the shower last night. When I looked at my phone, it was the exact minute he sent out the Tweet: "after careful consideration I have decided to exit the simulation. I love you all so much and I will see you in the next one." I hate 9:01 pm on February 28th. A jolt went thru my heart. I got out of the shower too soon. Unable to decide what to do, I stood there. I took my nightly medication. And stood there.  Shouldn't I be doing something? Some action at the moment my son took his life that would honor him? Something. Anything.  But I didn't. I stood there. Then I went to bed.  I've done a lot to honor...