The Wallet

I sat on the April chilled hardwood floor, clusters of pet fur swirling around me and opened the bookcase doors. The box that held the flurry of paper and notes generated by a sudden death stared back at me.

IMG_5536My hands hesitated, then reached in and pulled out the box bathed in blues and greens and lifted the lid. Bright yellow legal pads that held the accident information, the grid from the cemetery, and carefully preserved newspaper clippings rested in neatly stacked bundles. But no wallet. The worn leather wallet that was returned to us with his body, both sodden with gritty, silty pond water. Both carefully preserved, his body by the undertakers, his wallet by us.

A bedroom door opened and my tall surviving son slipped out and stopped at the sight of me in my enormous pink bathrobe sitting on the floor with my head in my hands. He came and sat beside me in the early dawn light. His clipped military haircut a lingering presence of his days in the Navy, his tattoos peeking out around his neck and shoulders. The scars from his injuries and operations creating and weaving a story of their own on his body.

“I can’t find Justin’s wallet,” I offered to Ryan’s unasked question. “My brain, I have blocks of no memory.”

Ryan nodded in understanding, his dark auburn hair catching the light. Flashbacks rushing to fill the space between us were rapidly dispersed by the arrival of Ryan’s Husky, winking his blue eye at us. Hyde’s infectious canine grin elicited a smile from both of us, the nails on his dancing paws tapping out staccato exclamation points on the rough hardwood floor. His waving tail stirring the tumbleweeds of pet fur to renewed whirling.

My anxiety at not finding the wallet ebbed as I breathed in the presence of living flesh and blood. Awakening to the present moment, I stole a glance at my son dodging Hyde’s exuberant kisses. I felt an internal quiver, a piercing dart of pain and joy. Ryan’s compassionate act, sitting on the cold floor with me, brought sparking life to the dried and withered parts of my heart. The parts that had died with the words, “your son, Justin, is dead.” A chord struck, rousing memories of two little boys laughing as we played on that same hardwood floor. Remembering the warmth of holding their small hands in mine, clashed with the anguish of my hands clenching shards of memories.

The north wind played and whistled, rattling the windows, skating under the front door creating fresh currents of pet fur.

“Do not get lost in the dead and miss these precious moments with the living.” breathed the wind.

Ache for the child dead swirled with fiery kindled delight in the child present. Profound Sorrow. Exquisite Joy. Fierce desire to live and create new memories pulsed through my heart. I realized I wanted to embrace life and squeeze every drop from it like an orange that fills the room with its euphoric citrus scent when pierced and juiced. I did not want to miss a minute of Ryan’s life, this wise and charming young man who sat with me on the cold and drafty floor.

“Do not get lost in the dead and miss these precious moments with the living.” Like a living tattoo, I etched the words of the north wind on my heart; I slid the organized box of death back on the bookcase shelf and closed the doors.

Dusting ourselves off, we left the cold floor and followed Hyde’s white plumed tail out to the kitchen. The rising sun was bouncing rainbows on the walls as it caught the prisms dangling in the windows and the promise of hot coffee beckoned. I would resume my search for Justin’s wallet, but not now. This moment belonged to the living.

 

 

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Terri Written by:

I am a wife and mother of two sons. Our eldest, Justin, was killed in a car accident September 27, 2010, he was 25 years old.

20 Comments

  1. momof3misses
    May 2, 2016

    WOW! I don’t know what else to say. This is so powerful. Here you are trying to capture your lost child without losing the one sitting beside you.

    • May 2, 2016

      Thank you Kelly for writing! I wrestled with my heart and my words trying to make sense of all that happened in what felt like a split second. Thank you for understanding, thank you for the gift of your time and affirmation. Wishing you a very peace filled evening.

  2. May 3, 2016

    So beautiful Terri. Yes another courageous act among many. Sometimes it takes incredible bravery to do something as small as putting a box back on a shelf.

    • May 3, 2016

      Thank you Kate for taking the time to visit and comment, that means so much to me! Thank you for your words of affirmation, sometimes we need to know we are being brave. Wishing you a week filled with peaceful moments after such an extraordinary weekend of LTYM! Congratulations again!

  3. Tracie
    May 3, 2016

    Terri, I thank you so much for sharing this. Sometimes it can difficult for us to stop and enjoy the sweet moments of life. Stop and smell the roses so to speak. We get so harried, and busy in our own minds. This is a beautiful testimony of the love that you and Doug have fostered in your boys, nothing is more important than that. Hugs my friend!

    • May 3, 2016

      Thank you Tracie for the gift of your time to visit and comment! I know that your time is not your own! Oh those boys, they wiggle into our hearts and change us forever. Your sons also are a living testament to your heart and how beautifully you and Lawrence have nurtured your sons. Wishing you a beautiful Mother’s Day filled with good things!

  4. May 3, 2016

    What a courageous moment. Beautifully written. Good for you.

    • May 4, 2016

      Thank you Shari for taking the time to visit and read. Thank you also for your affirmation, courage is sometimes hard to recognize in ourselves. Wishing you a peace filled day.

  5. May 3, 2016

    Terri, this is so beautiful! Your writing just pulls me in and stirs my emotions. Thanks for sharing this precious moment with us! Blessings and comfort to you!

    • May 3, 2016

      Dear Gayl, thank you for walking with me on this journey. Thank you for the gift of your time and presence to read these moments. Wishing you a peace filled week, thinking of you as this first Mother’s Day without your mom approaches. Be extra kind to you, sending you much love.

  6. May 3, 2016

    Wow! So powerful, it’s like you opened up a window right into your heart. Thank you for sharing this with us.

    • May 3, 2016

      Thank you Rena! I know you don’t have a minute to yourself, and yet you made time to sit with me. I am humbled and grateful for your company! Thank you for your encouraging words.

    • May 3, 2016

      Thank you Paula for visiting and sharing the gift of your time with me.

  7. May 3, 2016

    What a beautiful, haunting account of what has to be the most painful thing that any one person can go through. The strength you somehow manage is astounding. Yes, life is definitely for the living.

    • May 3, 2016

      Thank you Carol for your affirming words and encouragement. Thank you for the gift of your time to visit and walk with me a bit. Wishing you a very peace filled week.

  8. May 3, 2016

    Oh Terri, the haunting ache of your words and your broken heart touch me deeply. You write so keenly of intertwining of sorrow and joy that make up your days. I will make sure to also follow the north wind’s wise whisper.

    • May 3, 2016

      Thank you Dana. There is an ancient wisdom in the north wind, she is unlike her sisters. I can’t hardly stand to be inside when the wind comes out of the north. I wrestle with that intertwining of sorrow and joy, sometimes I can live in harmony with the two – and then other days, we are at odds. Thank you for walking this journey with me.

  9. May 3, 2016

    It’s wonderful how you can describe moments of your life and journey. I think and think and always seem to push away the moments that could be described. They feel too small, too insignificant to put to paper. And so I let them go and never develop them…snippets of life and stories left untold. I feel like I need “inspiration” or some other intangible to make the story worth telling. On another note, I hope you go to the Camino this year. You will be inspired (not that you need it!)

    • May 3, 2016

      I read an essay written by a young widow, she wrote that everything counts, nothing is insignificant. I have held her words close to my heart. Your stories are not small or insignificant and I look forward to hearing them as they make themselves known. We are on target for the Camino. We have no plan, no money, no passports. Hopefully the passports will arrive without any snafus. But not worried. Ryan will be home through September to early October, so if we are going to go, this is the year. I dream everyday of Camino.

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