Dogs barking, birds singing, sun shining—all calling me to the great outdoors. I’m stuck inside—safe within the walls of my home, sifting through photos, trying to pick up the pieces of a shattered life from the floor.

Thoughts of resurrection and memories of a life gone by. Chapters closed. A hard bound book finished and put up on the shelf with its dog-eared pages marking the parts of the story I don’t want to forget.

Plastic farm animals, chocolate bunnies and treasure maps drawn to help a small boy find what the Easter Bunny left. No one wants to be alone in this world without some sort of map to show them the way.

Excited faces, dyed eggs, plastic grass and the same rickety Easter basket that came down off the shelf year after year.

My heart is still heavy. I often wonder if it died that day. If the map got crumpled and thrown on the floor. Treasure, dreams and reasons worth living for. All dashed late one night on a dark country road—with gunshots ringing, fragile shells cracking and spirits rising up to the heavens.

Pages torn from the book with the back slamming shut—put on a shelf to be taken down, dusted and read —with special attention given to not just the dog-eared pages but all that fell in between. Our lives were not just hollow bunnies. They were rich with life and promises, unfinished treasure maps and dreams.

I can’t help but think that the best of my life is over—we are now onto the rest—47 in just a few short weeks and my one true love has left.

Hearts broken.

Dreams dashed.

All that is left is fake flowers and plastic grass—looking at cracks in the pavement while I wait for the weeds to come up—the lone dandelion with all of its determination and might.

Birds singing.

Chimes ringing.

Shattered pieces on the floor.

Quietly murmuring prayers of resurrection—for salvation—and to be given a life worth living for.

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Note: this piece was written Easter week, 2020. I’ll be 50 in just five short weeks!

As I mentioned in my last post, when I originally started writing a true crime memoir about losing my son, Josiah, to homicide in 2019, the impetus was centered around documenting the pieces I wrote in the early stages of grief. I can’t tell you how many times people reached out to me on social media saying, “I hope you’re saving these [writings] somewhere.”

At the time, I was despondent and beyond overwhelmed. I could hear what they were saying, but finding Josiah, whatever was left of him, was the only thing on my mind. Luckily, a friend thought so strongly that she saved them all to a google doc for posterity.

The first draft of Remember the Birds (which bears the same name as this blog), was centered around those writings, but as I continue to hammer out the second draft, I have found that as much as they inform the writing, they don’t belong in the book.

Who knows? Maybe I’ll include an addendum? There is certainly plenty of time to decide.

I came across the entry above back in December, but thought it best to wait until now to share it with all of you. Of all the early writings I did, this is among my favorites. I love the imagery. It is both literal and figurative. It can be read either way. Both work.

**Josiah was killed during a carjacking on June 7th, 2019, when he and the driver of the vehicle stopped to help two men stranded in the high desert of Eastern Washington. They were headed to the Gorge Amphitheater to see Dead and Company. It took 14 months to find his remains.

…

If you’d like to read more pieces written in the early days of my grief, you can find some of them on the When Grief Speaks tab.

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