As I continue to plug along with the writing of the book, Remember the Birds, I come across content first shared on my Facebook page. At that time, it was a way to get the feelings out of my body before they turned to rancor. Although there were people in my life who gave me invaluable support, I lived up on top of a mountain in my tiny cabin alone. I woke alone and went to sleep alone each night. Social media gave me a way to connect, to not feel so isolated, and in turn, drew people close to this story in ways that I never suspected. It was through that sense of connection that I kept going. Now, they are not only old Facebook posts, they are an ongoing dialogue which is helping to birth the story I am writing for all of you. Thank you for following along, Liz – Josiah’s mom

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Originally written February 25, 2020

I have a weird life.

I am like you, only different.

I go to the dentist. I get my teeth cleaned.

Today, I laid in the chair remembering being there just after Josiah was murdered, remembering how different I was then. I was in shock. I was in hiding. I hid behind my anonymity. Almost no one knew who I was, that I was a grieving mom, that my son had gone missing. All that was left behind was a crime scene; blood in a car and bullet casings – bullet casings that matched ones found by five more who would die the next day; bullet casings and blood in a car that the perpetrators tried to light on fire, but the fire went out. There was evidence still there, evidence I couldn’t talk about, evidence that would be sent off to a forensics lab with no real answers coming back for over six more months.

I didn’t know laying in that dentist’s chair back then what laid in front of me — and truth is, I still don’t.

I am still here living my life, mostly, but my son is gone, my work is gone. They’ve been replaced by ptsd, trauma counseling and me muddling through.

I stopped at my mailbox tonight to check for the second of two absentee ballots that have been mailed to me, two that have not been received, two that have gone missing. There was still no ballot sitting there, just a manilla envelope with a newspaper inside – a newspaper from Yakima with last month’s article in it. So there I was, standing in the dark with pearly white teeth and a newspaper with my son’s photo on the front page – an article talking of his disappearance and the reward being offered for the return of his remains. There is no longer a body, just a skeleton, maybe his clothes and his favorite belt – the one I got him for his 17th birthday. I would like it back and I would like him to come home in whatever way he can.

For now, I am here at home with heaps of photos of a boy I will never hug again – along with hundreds of rocks he has given me, pottery he made me, gifts he gave me, mementos from people who mourn him, who mourn with me, but whom we have never met along with an article in a newspaper and my pearly white teeth.

My life is strange, but it’s the only one I’ve got, so I’m going to make the best of it and give it all I’ve got.

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