Tonight, the family gathered around the TV to watch one of our favorite shows, The Flash.  Overall, a good episode, interesting questions asked, an important reveal at the end (well, a reveal for the main characters–the audience had the actual reveal at the end of the last episode).  During the episode, Cisco kept “vibing” a dark image of Zoom (Big Bad for this season) every time he touched an artifact in the lab.

Cisco “vibing” got me thinking about how I’ve recent had a number of similar occurrences myself.  No, I’m not a metahuman that was transformed by a particle accelerator accident, at least not so far as I know.  I don’t pretend to be a superhero of any particular variety.  It’s just the idea that looking at certain things, touching certain objects, hearing certain statements, will send my mind very dark places.  Right now, I’m not in a very bright place with my memories of Micah.  When I close my eyes, I don’t see him smiling, stone-face determined to stop pucks, focused on his music.  I see…other things.

Tonight, as I waited for Avi to brush her teeth, I glanced over towards Micah’s room.  I had one brief image pop into my head: the final moment of Micah’s life in the hospital that Friday night.  Avi caught it immediately, “Dad, are you okay?  It looks like you’re going to cry.”  I just told her that I was distracted and that yes, I was not in a good place.  Earlier this afternoon, I took a moment out from working on a project to tinker with our taxes.  As I thumbed through Micah’s dependent deduction, I saw another image of him–from the hospital, motionless except for his erratic breathing.

I know grief is a roller coaster.  I know that in time, I will be able to “see” him for all the happiness and joy that was a big part of his life.  I will see his smile and hear him talking to me about the latest video game, or his choir piece, or about what he wants to do with his life after this hockey season is over.  I can look at my Facebook pictures of him and force myself to see the happy side of Micah.  I really want that part of the roller coaster ride to get here soon.

Quiet.
No noise from the room.
No music from the speaker.
Trophies on the wall,
Reminding me of all that was good.
Pictures of moments past,
Playbills of shows that were.

I sit on the floor.
I look out to the wall,
And beyond.
I speak to him,
Silently or in hushed tones.
I tell him how much I miss the noise,
How much I miss the music,
How much I miss my son.

The air is calm.
There is no sound.
There are memories,
But there is no substitute,
For what there is not.

 

David

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