I’ve had this list of resolutions on my office wall since 2017, four years after my son Noah died by suicide. Though I rarely notice the list anymore, I’ve internalized much of it. I tell Noah he should have been here for a family party or my reunion with his old friends or the latest Kore-eda Japanese film. I nurture my friendships and love to spend time in mountains, near and far. I wrote a book of grief poems that will be published next year. Still, I wish I did more things more often in his name: visit his grave, travel, relax.
When I made the list, I was
desperate to stay connected with the living Noah, much less Noah’s memory. I could
already feel him taking up less space in my heart and mind. From then till now
at the 10-year mark, I’ve agonized over what has felt like a gradual,
inevitable loosening of the bond as the pleasures and demands of the present
rush in. Noah’s struggle and horrific death no longer crowd out everything
else as they once did.
Our son, Ben, just gifted us a digital
photo frame loaded with photos of his (Ben’s) life, our beloved little Frenchie,
trips together. I wanted to add pictures of Noah but my husband said the
pictures on the frame should be from the present. This startled me: does Noah belong
only to the past? All the pictures we have of him are at least ten years old
while everyone else is moving on in their lives. How can that be?
Ben has given us wonderful photos of
himself and his art, which we gladly display. Was the digital frame another way to assert himself in our home amid plentiful images of and by
Noah on the walls? Does our living room feel like a shrine to his brother that leaves
him out? I plan to talk with Ben about this in the new year and may reconsider. At the moment, I still want to walk by and sit near signs of Noah’s presence in
our lives.
It is often said that grief is love with no
place to go. I felt that so acutely in the early years, as if I had a phantom
heart; I kept reaching for it but it was utterly shattered. As if all the love
and care and worry for Noah that had flowed for 21 years suddenly hit a mighty cliff
face and exploded into an abyss. No outlet. No response. No home for the love I
thought would fill a lifetime.
As I document on this blog, it took
time and effort and a lot of support to let grief open my heart again. Sometimes I
found places to bring my love; sometimes they found me. Sometimes I was
(and still am) more numb than I want to be. The journey continues …
Wishing everyone heartening connections in the new year.
To my fellow survivors: Wishing you more hope and healing in 2024. If you feel grief is love with no place to go, how might you revitalize that precious flow of love you had with
your lost one? To what or whom might you now direct it? What’s on your list of ways
to cherish their memory?
