Allegedly Dead - Now There Are 2.
Now There Are 2.
My children were three peas in a pod.
The state you grew up in, the only one you knew as home, has three seasons
I got three delicious trimesters with each of you.
You were my three wise men
They say bad luck comes in threes, and there’s always the holy trinity.
But now there are two. -Katie Rizzo
This house is quiet now that things have turned out the way they did. Although sometimes when I get up in the middle of the night, I’ll bump into the ghost of the three of you. Where did you get the nerve to set an alarm for two in the morning? The three of you would sneak down and play video games, and that little bit of mischief wasn't born from my genetics. The three of you were always your own little unit of madness, chaos, and adventure. It's odd how ghosts of you all never notice me watching from behind the couch. Your delicious giggles reverberate in the dark, like fresh snow. Joey’s is surprisingly louder than the rest, Max’s has an almost evil undertone, and yours bursts from your mouth like it needs to escape.
I want to go back to when you three were small. It isn’t just the adorableness - the rolls around your pudgy legs, or how your little belly buttons would stick out like turkey thermometers when you’d bloat your tummies out, and nor is it how you all would ride your tricycles and scooters around and around the house like practicing for driving on freeways. Well, maybe it is a little of that. I sure loved how you all fit into my arms like we were made for one another. If you hadn’t died, maybe I wouldn’t pine for those times - is the word pine or long or ruminate? I think it’s a mix of the three.
Megan Falley, the poet and wife of Andrea Gibson, says her person is “allegedly dead,” and I re-read those words, once, twice, and a thousand times. Then I stared at photos of you that rotate through our eclectic frame. You were here. You have to be somewhere. Can you be allegedly dead too?
I took the dogs out for a run, and we went by the park. The park of your childhood, the one you cut your teeth on, is where you learned how to play with others. The park where Max cut a jagged line on his shin that never healed, where my water broke with Joey, the one you graduated from strollers to bikes, scooters, and a very short-lived electric car. I’m sure you remember the giant palm trees that surround it. I swear your feet must have impressions on their bark. You and your brothers used to climb them until you got so high I’d beg you to come down.
Well, today I ran past the playground and tapped down the thought of what if things had ended up differently. Instead, I got all the way past knowing how things are. You’re somewhere else, and here at the same time. And sometimes the three of you chase after me. Max always pulls his eyelids up and looks down, then laughs and laughs. Joey yells, “Wait. Wait.” He thrusts his toddler hand out as if he can pull on air. What would I do to see his chubby little legs run after you again?
I’ve tried to explain to you three ghost kids that time is linear, and while I’m real, they aren’t. But you kids laugh and laugh.
In any case, this week I was lucky enough to talk about you, my allegedly dead son, a few times. Nicholas, if you’re listening, your brothers, Dad, and I miss you something fierce.
If you want to listen or read -
Sadie Rowbottom, a newfound friend of my heart, and I had a conversation on her podcast - The Grief Lounge. https://open.spotify.com/episode/2ZIhQrKk8IEKA6qCJXjUgI?si=372XppNSQYuEnQ0KYcIGVg
And Ahbra Pal and I discussed love, art, and creativity on his podcast, Stories and Stanzas. https://youtu.be/gDYV6BdqRkk?si=KOWFPbLvK4tP9vAu
An article in Candlelight Magazine (page 36 is especially great) https://waitingroompublishing.com/collections/candlelight
