Butterfly Chronicles Volume 26 – Here Comes the Sun

That song no longer makes me happy, and I am not alright.

“So faith looks up and sails on, by God's great Sun, not seeing one shore line or earthly lighthouse or path upon the way.”

So many life parts are changed. Ways of living, of seeing the world, of meeting people, of closing self off, of being afraid to look up or catch eyes. Hugs hard from anyone who meets me for the first time since. New normal sometimes a lethal dose. Everything upside down. I don’t want to be a part of life’s buzzing throng. A quiet life. An invisible life. Counting sidewalk cracks and grocery store floor tiles. Cloaked behind eyes that only follow the ground.

Strange new fears, exploding unexpectedly, vise gripping my neck, shallow gasping breaths, panic. Panic – how do I describe the straight jacket claustrophobic, heart pounding evil hold of it.

We were packing – again. So much stuff. This day, the garage our goal. Zach present everywhere – tackle box, tool box, baseball bag, hammers, projects, Zach’s essence a gentle wave caressing the room – memories, flowing through the stuff, bringing it alive.

It was too much. Michael quietly left to go inside – to take a break from the memories and heart pain.

The panic rose, a thunderstorm silently rumbling, picking up speed, cracking earth, shaking windows, starting slowly like the tingle of cold toes on the way to frostbite. It slammed ice pick through heart. I plunged into the house, rocked by the waves tsunami now, sucking me under…calling, Michael, Michael, louder, but not too loud so the girls wouldn’t hear and so they wouldn't fly back to the panic and screams and end.

Running through wet concrete, bent over, clutching stomach as fear folded me tighter, pressing over my face, suffocating me, heart pounding, remembering, seeing Michael behind a closed door, dead. Where was he? Michael, please answer, oh God, oh God, not again, not again. I can’t survive this again. Sinking, barely shuffling to a closet door, locked in the rolling wave tumbling, feet flailing, searching for sand. Slow motion moving fighting through the panic - please God where is he?  Why won't he answer?  Reaching for the knob, looking where I couldn’t bear to look. Michael? Michael! No where. Blindly searching, where, where? Circling back to back door, calling forced calmly, girls where is your dad?

 

“He’s here mom.” He, out front door, as I had staggered into inside through back door. Michael, in front, safe.  While I called trying to pull him back to the now from nowhere, he stood breathing, stroking the fury new puppy life from next door at the front door. Straight jacket steel hard muscles cramping, unwinding, softening as I collapsed back inside and sobbed. Every minute of that night raging through my tear jerking body. 

 Michael knelt beside me; I disappeared in his arms, overwhelmed at the presence, smell, warmth of him being alive.  I don’t want to go through that again. But it has happened - the real, and the panic that it might be real again. It might happen again. “They” say this is normal. This fear. Fear that it could happen again. I fight the fear. When can I cry uncle?

 

How can tacos dredge grief to the pouring of eye watering face, drip drip drip stream. Some days are okay. But only because the stone on stone separating Zach from me wall grows up between him and my thoughts rolling a stone over the door of the place he lives in my head. How does a mother push away child? Suckled, rocked, soft songs sung, heart beat to heart beat, that tiny life step by stumbling step growing into manhood. How does a mother wall out child? But I do. And I get up. And I try. And it is so hard.

 

What could I say to another mother, child gone to heaven this way? How could I tell her it will ever be okay when I don’t believe it? It will never be okay. Ever. And that damn sun will still come up tomorrow. And these are lessons I don’t want to learn. And they don’t feel like they are for my good. And I wonder if I will survive.

 

Hope is the thing with feathers. Sometimes it flies away.

God, I wish the cup could’ve passed and that sin didn’t make life and death this way. That sun is coming again. And faith means I don't know why and don't see the path, and somehow, someday, some way that has to be okay - the not knowing or understanding. Because the sun is coming anyway and butterflies fly best in the sun. Here comes the sun...dodododooodo.  Here comes the sun.  God, make it alright. 
And thank you for the every single day butterflies.