Migrations
Whales canvas the
ocean from the
top of the globe to the
bottom with a stroke
of their tail.
Arctic Terns
fly tens of thousands
of miles
and
Monarchs follow a thin
line
I never considered humans
as migratory
until
you started
this long
walk
home.
-Katie Rizzo
Before Nicholas died, the days in the beginning of November - the Day of the Dead / Día de Muertos, All Saints’ Day, and All Souls' Day - were like every other day. Now, the early days in November have a little more sparkle; I push my heart harder on the brick wall of death, hoping Nicholas is listening.
On Sunday, November 1st, Nick and I went to church. A side note: I’ve become a church person since Nicholas took us there before he died, and the priest spoke with love about people with addiction.
Sunday, All Saints’ Day, the day we attended church, is supposed to be different from November 2nd, All Souls' Day. Well, it isn’t for me, because from my limited understanding the former is for those who go to heaven and the latter is for those that don’t, and since I don’t believe there is a heaven and hell that distinction is unimportant.
In any case, my mother-in-law, Helen, had placed a framed photo of her husband and of our son on the Catholic’s idea of an ofrenda. She didn’t tell us, so it was a surprise when I sat in the pew and looked over. There was my son in a photo taken for his high school pictures, arguably at the peak of his life; he smiled with a jumble of hope around him.
My husband muttered, “It’s horrific.”
It is
horrific.
Horrific.
***
And this cord of love between my mother-in-law, Helen, and me has been little more than a thread at times, but on Sunday it felt like a rope, and she was demanding I hang on. I’ve read articles about why female whales (the only other mammal that goes through menopause) continue living even though they are no longer fertile. Scientists think it’s to support their offspring.
There, in the church, it felt like she was pushing Nick and me up for air.
The whole reason I keep coming back to that pew, that church, is that this is the place Nicholas picked. A few weeks before he died, he’d asked us all to go to church, and somehow we ended up at this new place, St. Bridget, a church with a priest who is understanding to those with addiction. Nick and I sat on either side of Nicholas, who showed up late, wearing a checkered blue shirt. I looked at their hodgepodge stained glass, and held Nicholas’s hand.
He had just gotten out of rehab. Or rather, been kicked out because they didn’t think our insurance would pay.
As I sat there, I thought Nicholas had turned over a new leaf and was hanging on, but in reality maybe he was saying good-bye.
The monarchs agree that November 1st is a sacred day. The great-grandchildren's butterflies follow their great-grandparents’ trail. They arrive in the same city that their ancestors departed from to overwinter.
Scientists still don’t know how those butterflies know how to make the 3000 mile migration to the same place year after year. Is it magnetism, pheromones, epigenetics? The oyamel fir tree in Mexico becomes their last home, a place where they can create their own climate within the blanket of short pines. Every year they follow a pull harvested from two generations before.
Nicholas, do you feel my pull?
***
To order None of Them Are You, a collection of poetry from the first year of grief:
To purchase The Trimesters of Grief, my memoir from the first year of grief:
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