2013 started out gray. 2012 ended the same way. For most of the last week the skies have been heavy, bloated, on the verge of crying. I know this feeling. I spent a good portion of last year feeling this way.

I don’t like to hear someone say “This day can’t be over soon enough!” or “I wish it was Friday already!”. Ask my son how many times he’s heard me say “Don’t wish your life away!”.

And yet, as I sit at my desk watching the first few drops of rain ping one leaf at a time on their way down, I am aware of a sense of relief that a new year has begun, that the old one is finished, and that we’ve careened past yet another milestone no more damaged than we were going in. And, I am grateful.

Thanksgiving was different; not bad, not difficult, just different. Christmas was different, too…a little sadder, and angry, but not in a fierce way. Angry in a wistful way. Wistful as in “Isn’t it a shame he chose not to be here?” Because, he did. Trey chose not to have Christmas with us. And we know how to do Christmas! We have great Christmases! I don’t understand why he wouldn’t want to be here…

There are lots of things I don’t understand.

I don’t understand why a general practitioner happily rewrites a middle-aged woman’s Zoloft prescription for months on end, but when that same woman suggests her adolescent son might also benefit from anti-depressants, he refuses without listening and looks at her as though she should be ashamed.

I don’t understand a therapist who, after several unsuccessful attempts at getting an obviously troubled teenager to open up, dismisses his mother with “You’re wasting your money and my time. Don’t bring him back until he’s willing to talk.”, or a high school counselor who, upon being alerted by a classmate that a student is cutting himself, shakes her head at the parent saying “We simply can’t have that here.”, as though mental illness is somehow catching and another kid will see his scars and think them cool and before you know it everyone is cutting.

Anyone who tells you mental illness carries no stigma never tried to get help for a disturbed child.

I do understand, though, the horror inherent in the realization that the weapon-wielding monster might have been my son and the ever-present fear that the next time he might not be pulled over before crossing the center line.

My son is dead but he didn’t take anyone with him. I understand that. And, I am grateful.

I am told that the black hole in my memory where last January and most of February used to be is normal. I likened the space to a blank chalkboard when describing it to my therapist who agreed that the missing chunk of time may, indeed, contribute to my feeling that every moment since is a do-over.

In one of those moments, several weeks after I began seeing her, I realized parts of me I hadn’t missed are back. My wounds are healing, as all wounds do, by reclamation. The “skin” has grown back, not as new skin but as a continuation of the old, only better, stronger, scarred and thus resilient. I like her, the woman I am becoming; the one I was before but newer, stronger, with a chance to be better.

That is his gift.

He always did that. He always brought me gifts. From the time he was very small, if he went outside, he came back in with pockets full of rocks and handfuls of dandelion heads. He was sure every rock was a gem. And they were. I kept them all.

At Thanksgiving last year he brought me bird’s nests to add to my collection. He frequently came across them in his work and saved them for me. Some were square, as though formed inside a box. Some were round and tiny. And one had parts of blue eggshell inside.

And he wrote me notes like the one I found a few weeks ago while cleaning out a file cabinet.

Thank you so much from all of us. Without you I/we would be nothing. In my whole 21 years you have never let me down. You are absolutely without question the best mom in the world. I love all you guys with all my heart.

Thank you.

Love, Trey

My Dad will be 81 today. He made his yearly trek up from the gulf coast to Atlanta yesterday, and you can write his departure date on your calendar in ink. He’ll leave the day after Father’s Day. His work here will be done. It’s a pretty sweet deal, really; a few hours driving nets him 8 days of pampering, multiple trips to his favorite restaurants, two parties in his honor, and many, many kisses.

He’s never been easy to buy for, mainly because he’s always had the means to buy for himself. My youngest sister buys him clothes. They’re always expensive. They’re always sporty, and they’re always the right size. This is because she has a hand in buying all his clothes. Since it’s his birthday, these clothes will be wrapped in tissue paper inside a box. If he likes them, he’ll say they’re “sharp”. Sometimes they’re even “really sharp”. And, if he likes them a lot, he’ll call someone’s attention to them as in, “Stacye! Look at this! Isn’t this sharp?”

My sister Laura gives him English Leather after shave. She always has. Ever since we were very young, and our parents took us to Rich’s downtown, to the floor where the ladies wearing lots of make-up and really high heels asked us how much money we had, and helped us pick out something to give Mom and Dad at Christmas. I don’t know where she gets it now. I can’t remember the last time I saw that familiar cedar rectangle on display inside a store. Maybe she gets it on the internet. You can buy anything on the internet…

My sister, Holly, and I are, depending on your particular brand of pop-psychology, the Free Spirits, the Rebels, the Scapegoats, and/or Rabble-Rousers in this family. You never know what we might present come gift time. Holly has gone the clothing route; a bold move, in my opinion, given her competition. For a couple of years, she gifted him with coffee. Dad prefers Starbucks, House Blend, please…ground, not bean.

Being the artsy-fartsy one of the bunch, I crafted calendars for Dad. Much to the chagrin of almost everyone present, I named myself “Family Photog”, and set about chronicling our events. Only the best of the bunch graced Dad’s wall. Best, of course, meant lots of things. It might mean cutest, or most comical, or heartwarming, or pretty, and sometimes it just meant the only shot I got in which my sister’s eyes weren’t closed, or my nephew’s mouth wasn’t open. I never knew how much he appreciated my efforts until I didn’t make them any more. He called me, during a time free of family emergency, just to express his disappointment. Of course, he had his calendar in a matter of days.

And he’ll get his calendar this year too…only it’ll be on Father’s Day, not on his birthday…just to change things up. I’m using old black-and-whites of my mother. I’m sure he’ll love it. In the meantime, I went to the Farmer’s Market and bought all the things he likes.

I bought “Sundried Tomatoes Pesto”. I’m sure the label was printed by the same woman manning the booth. She urged me, in her gorgeous Italian accent, to try the vegetable medley. I demurred, explaining the purchase was for my father. “He’ll be 81 tomorrow.” She smiled through her disappointment.

I bought a pint-sized almond pound cake from a teenager, who will never know it was the beautiful crevasse atop the loaf that sold me.

I bought smoky chipotle salsa from a woman more interested in her cellphone than selling salsa. There was either a child or man on the other end of that phone. I know. I’ve been there. I bought anyway. Still, she was disappointed I didn’t try the empanada.

The woman selling spiced pecans was a newbie. She hawked her wares from a cookie sheet while her son quoted prices in whispers. I bought a small, over-priced baggie-ful. Dad loves pecans.

The pièce de résistance appeared, where it always does; on the last row, in the last booth. “Heavenly Pastries” is owned by Tanya Jackson who almost certainly works for someone else most of the time. When she’s not, though, she creates perfection in the form of miniature glazed bundt cakes drizzled in chocolate. I bought the Red Velvet. She included a gingham gift bag with my purchase that I’ve decided to use as wrapping in place of the basket I’d pictured filling earlier.

My stopping excited her. She stood immediately. My choosing the cake excited her even more.

“It’s for my father.”

Her smile grew.

“He’s going to be 81 tomorrow. He doesn’t come to Farmer’s Markets so I’m buying all the things I think he’ll like.”.

She counted my change into my out-stretched hand.

“Tell him I said “Happy Birthday, okay?”

Category: Gifts

Mixed Blessings

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