Lately I have been consumed by a dense fog that has surrounded my mind like a cold blanket from which I can draw no warmth. Whether it is a depression of sorts or rather a serious introspection, I am unable to define it. The memories of people who are no longer a part of my life, whether through death or an absence of the heart, are invading my mind like a plague of cicadas in summer. Replete with all the noise and the familiar melancholy song, yet all too soon their empty shells are left to fill the void that their departure brings. I feel the need to write a tribute to them, to pay an homage of sorts, and I hope that perhaps in doing so, the fog will lift.
Mike (Mikey as I called him and Bubba to everyone else). Mikey was killed in a tragic accident 10 years ago this August. At times it is so difficult for me to believe that he is gone, and at others I almost start to feel that maybe he never existed. That it is all part of my imagination or that I created him as some sort of amalgam from various friends in my life. I knew Mikey from the age of 5 on, when he was an adorable chubby kid whose older sisters babysat us. He was the first boy I ever kissed. He was the boy who first dared to wear pink. Between Junior High and High School Mikey transitioned from a chubby kid who was a little bit of an outsider, to a gorgeous man with a half-pipe in his backyard and more friends than anyone I have ever known. Ever girl wanted to date him, ever guy wanted to be him, or at the very least be his friend. Mikey had a gift, not just with people or his skills on the boards, but mainly with cars. It was absolutely unbelievable what he could turn a rusted out VW Bug into. He was an amazing man who had so much potential and the thought of it wasted is unbearable. And yet, what brings me the most pain with Mikey's death is the knowledge that my friend Sharon lost a piece of her soul when he died. She and Mikey were friends of the heart, two halves of the same person and she has never been the same.
Stacy. I met her in Jr. High in my cooking class after I ruined our batch of chocolate chip cookies, a feat I still do to this day, and we became fast friends. Stacy was a full blooded Navajo Indian. She was one of the most beautiful women I have ever seen in my entire life, unfortunately she never believed that about herself. Our friendship grew stronger through high school, through her first miserable marriage, the birth of her son Patrick, and her divorce. We spent countless nights at Grounds for Coffee playing rummy and worrying about the path our lives were on. She could play pool better than most men I have ever seen and had the innate ability to be utterly feminine and a tomboy at the same moment. At some point Stacy decided to move back to Arizona, to the reservation, with her family. She needed a fresh start I feel. We kept in touch through letters for a few years, but the last time I heard from her was when she said she would come to my wedding. She never did. Two years ago my mom found out that she had died. I do not know when, or how. I sent a card to her parents, but never heard back, not that I would expect to. I can not explain the feeling that her death creates in me. At times it still seems like I have not being able to fully grieve for her, that I do not know how, which only makes her death that much more painful.
John. Fortunately John is still very much alive. Unfortunately, our friendship is dead. I wish I knew how, I wish I really understood why. There is a stubbornness that stops us from reconnecting, along with a fear of being hurt again. To me, John is the person I see when I look in the mirror. There is a connection between us that I have never felt with anyone else. It is not romantic and would never turn into that as I know that my husband is my soul mate. However, if there is such a thing as a soul friend, John is mine. He understands me better than anyone else and truly challenged me to become a better person. I miss him every day.
Helen. This Thursday is 2 years to the day since she lost her battle with breast cancer. I feel so very fortunate that she was not only my mother in law, but also a friend. I loved her more than I think I can ever express. I saw in her a kindred spirit, and yet some one that was so much more than I could ever hope to be. She was so loving, loyal, and dedicated. She would do anything for her family and friends, without a thought to herself. She was by far one of the feistiest and sassiest woman I have ever had the pleasure of knowing, yet she had the depth of kindness the likes of which I doubt I will ever see again. She and my father in law, helped raise Missy G for the first few years of her life and it breaks my heart that my daughter barely remembers her and that our new daughter (who is named after her) will never know Helen. I truly hope that my daughters grow to become a woman like her. Grandma Fern. What an amazing woman she was, particularly considering the amount of love she gave all of her grandchildren, even though none of us were technically her own. She taught me so much about nature, about the quiet pleasure of conversation, and that any time together was time well spent. She was a professional flower presser and used to make incredible art with the wildflowers from the Tehachapi hills (see above banner for an idea of what the hills look like). She could translate into braille, she made award winning quilts, she could identify almost any bird, she made the best egg salad sandwiches, and she loved me with her whole heart. She was my refuge during our summers spent there when my grandfather would focus on my brother and hardly register my existence. I loved to be with her, no matter what we were doing. I truly regret not spending more time visiting her when she was older or making more of an effort, even though with her Parkinsons it was hard. What I really regret is that I did not do more for her funeral to pay tribute to her and do her memory honor. I am still so disappointed in the way that it was handled and wish I could go back, stand up, and say "Yes, I have something to say about this incredible woman".
Dylan. My brave son, taken from us much too soon. I can not write about his short life and death as I am afraid that once those doors that I spent the past two years forcing closed are open, I will not be able to shut them again. I hope it is enough to say that he is loved and missed every minute of every day.
Derek. My brother, it is 18 years this September that you have been gone, taken from us at barely 20 years of age. You have been gone from my life as many years as you were in it, which is unfathomable to me. You never had a chance to grow into the wonderful man I know you would have become. When you died there were glimpses of that man, visions of his kindness, compassion, patience, dedication, and love of life. I can not help but wonder who you would have married, what your children would have been like. Those are the things I miss the most, memories I was not able to make with you. I can never express to people what our relationship was like. At times it was so typical brother and sister, yet there was so much more. There were countless nights we spent in each others rooms in sleeping bags on the floor as we listened to Dr. Demento on the radio and talked about our dreams, hopes, and fears. There were crazy food concoctions that we created, most were successes, while a few were horrid failures. There was our love for the Beatles and heated debates about which songs were the best. I loved spending time with you, I would have done anything to just get to hang out with you. It was so hard for me when you moved to California, to have you so far away. I looked forward to every Sunday when you would call, and yet that time apart forged a bond between us that few people have. I loved the fact that you were never afraid to tell people you loved them, not your friends, not your family, not anyone. I loved that you could light up a room the minute you walked in, people were immediately drawn to you. I could never do that, we were so opposite in our very nature and the way we approached situations and people. Sometimes I still feel that the wrong child died. That it should have been me. That it would have been easier on our family to have not lost the bright light that was the center of everyone's world. Your death left a void that has never been filled and I feel that emptiness, carry it around with me, all the time. I lost half my mind when you died, not in the sense that I went crazy, even though I felt inside that I did for a long time, I mean I lost half my memories, half of my life experiences. There is no one there now that can share those memories with me and reminisce about the times we spent growing up. When I watch D and his sister interact, or mom and her brother, or any siblings for that matter, I am consumed by jealousy and a pain so raw that it takes all the strength in me to not scream. I wish you could have met D, I wish you could have known your nieces. They, like everyone, would have loved you. The old saying is that time heals, and it does, that much is true. I miss you and I think of you everyday, but the pain is not an open wound any longer. More like a scar that has healed over time, but is still tender to the touch. I feel that it will always be that way. It is interesting to me that I wrote about everyone else, but I wrote to you. Perhaps it is because I always talk to you, so it is second nature, a part of my everyday life. I want you to know that I love you Ringo. And I want to thank you for taking care of my baby boy until we meet again.
