Grieving Ryan

 I called the coroner today. Four and a half months ago they said it would take two or three months for his bloodwork to come back from the state lab and confirm the expected toxicology. I hadn't heard from them. It took me weeks to gather the courage or strength or whatever it was I had today that I didn't have dozens of other times I told myself I'd call.   The report from the lab was on file, but in a too-busy office it took my call to prompt the completion of the autopsy report. A young compassionate voice called me back to tell me what they had found. No surprises. Lots of big words: Intoxication by  . . .  lots of syllables I can't remember, four drugs I think.  Now I'm watching the mail for the document that will give it to me in writing. Actually, I'm watching the mail for two documents. The honorary diploma that marks Ryan's accomplishment in high school is coming too. Honorary because he didn't complete the last required half credit in English.

Unfelt grief stacks up.  A white-blonde image falls across a mispronounced word. A whisper of remembered laughter leans in and a missed opportunity for connection lands on top. The grin of a milestone reached and the pain of the one that should be now collect like blocks. The unfelt loss and lightly noticed sadness stack up in a tower. Unshed tears crawl up and find their way into crevices and balance atop the bits and pieces of life well lived, settling in puddles of regret for healing that did not come. Day by day today's life is lived. In the life of after, one foot steps in front of the other. The illusion that grief is lessening makes way for things that matter to move forward unmarred by anguish. It's a useful, even necessary, pattern for continuing to live when he isn't. But grief isn't lessening. It's piling up in the corner leaving a clear space in which to live today.  Moment by moment, bit by bit, stifled sob by suppressed remembrance, the tower grows tal