Butterfly Chronicles Volume 72: As Kip Dynamite Would Say

Dear Zach,

Grandma Dutsie is dying.  Cancer.  It set up house in her lungs then built a condo in her brain.  She’s tired.  Grandpa’s shoulders roll over with the weight of watching and waiting, and his body grows dimmer with pain. 

I sit on her bed listening to her life lessons.  She says she wonders if she’s done everything she wanted to do.  I say she’s done everything God wanted her to do.

 

She worries about Grandpa.  Who will buy his clothes? 

 
She talks flowers - the smell good kind of lilies – a blanket for her coffin.  I think of your coffin.  Your flowers.  I see my hand stroking your hair resting on a satin pillow. My brain door slams shut.  This talking death rips scabs off my heart.

Crawfish, cousins, a new puppy bird dog, and I see you with your new puppy and remember how happy you were, and I watch K and Connor wrestling all around piled and wrapped up arms and legs, giggling, and you aren’t there and should be there, giggling.

Moni said, “You may not be happy, but be joyful.”  I rebel.

At the most opportune moments, there you are in the butterflies. 

You look like you are handling it so well says the man to Michael.  Survival camouflage covers his broken heart. We meet, and we greet, and we take a partner do-sa-do square dancing around the elephant in the room.  

Zach, eternally I know you grow in grace in the presence of the Lord.  “You’ve got your praise on!” Then doubt drills a skull hole, until all my belief puddles on the ground. I race for hope.  Butterfly wings sew two stitches forward, doubt rips one out.  Slow progress.

I think about asking other suicide mothers to sit in a room with me and cry.

It’s Jesus is risen time.  No confetti egg chases this year.  Madison will hunt eggs with the baby cows and cousins at the ranch and go to the country church in basketball shorts.  We miss our across the street family, all of us spilling into the street in our jammies, scrambling for candy eggs, curb sitting, all faces chocolate coated covered. Laughing.

I miss your 13 years, warm hugs, the army yells, gunfire, Xbox live talk.  I want to see you running and dodging airsoft bullets, to watch you pedal away on your bike - fishing rod bobbing on your shoulder.  I want to gather and drop stinky stain boy smelling shirts and shorts into the washer, to hear you laugh, to watch you lick off the birthday dirt cake mustache. I want all your life back – my heart says I missed so much of you. How did I miss so much of you? 

We’ll walk another day toward eternity, missing you. 

As Kip Dynamite would say:

“Yes I love technology

But not as much as you, you see

But I still love technology

Always and forever.”

You are smiling, and I love you.

Blessed I am to be your mom!