Year One

A couple of weeks after we lost Rhys we were driving down Highland Avenue on the way to pick up his ashes from the funeral home. Kelly and I were emotional. We had  a difficult time leaving the hospital knowing that we'd be leaving him behind, that it would be the last time we saw him, and I was worried that at some point in the near future I would forget what he looked like or some important thing that reminded me of him. It was on that drive to pick up his ashes that I realized I could picture his face. I hadn't laid eyes on him for more than a week, but there he was, as clear as the first time I drank in his face. The tears flowed freely in that moment; Joy and sorrow, loss and peace all sitting quite comfortably together.

There was so much about those 4 days in the hospital that were difficult and then these seemingly odd moments of peace absorbing the features of his face and hands and feet. Neither Kelly nor I wanted to leave. Leaving meant we'd never hold him again; it meant saying goodbye to that physical reminder that he was here, that he lived and breathed, that he entered the world and became something. The most touching gesture and gift we received in the days following Rhys' death was from a friend who donated trees to be planted in his honor. That gift spoke to me. It connected to the moments of that day in a way that was devoid of judgment but held a deep recognition of the experience. I didn't want to conceive of what had happened as right or wrong, good or bad. There was nothing wrong with my son, there was nothing bad about his short life. It simply was. That's a hard thing to explain and share with people when they're consumed with wanting to explain those things. Those trees never said that to me. Those trees said that, regardless of the length of his life, Rhys contributed something to the world in some small way and that made all the difference sitting in that hospital room trying to figure out how to summon the courage to leave that place.

In the months that followed, after Rhys' ashes had found a home in two different urns, Kelly and I fell in to a rhythm of life that revolved around getting out of the house and walking in nature. We'd walk the prairie path West and East and spend time circling the ponds at Madison Meadows. Eventually, once Kelly had recovered sufficiently from her c-section, we returned to the East Branch dog park that we looked forward to traipsing around with a newborn strapped in a Baby Bjorn. There were moments when those forays back in to the world felt timely and needed and others when each step felt like sorrow and every one of those moments were vital. Sometimes my sadness and pain abound, sometimes it's joy and peace, sometimes it's all of those things at once but there has never been a moment in all of this when I've wanted someone to try and take any of these feelings away from me. These are the only things I have of him.

At the beginning of June our restlessness had risen to a peak and our energy turned towards doing. We wanted to create a physical space for our grief and a garden in the backyard seemed as good a way as any other. We pulled up a section of grass, moved the Day Lilies and Arborvitae that were in random places in the yard, and planted a new Hydrangea bush. In the weeks and months to come it would continue to take shape, adding other plants and moving some (apparently Hydrangea don't like full sun...who knew?), setting up a wind chime, placing his memorial paver, and adding a small bird bath made by his grandma. It is, for us, a place where his future siblings will know him, where they will interact with him, a place where they'll be able to add their own choice of plant or tree or bush and be reminded of ways in which all of our lives contribute something to the world around us. My hope is that they're reminded to contribute something positive towards the great balance of life.

In the last moments of writing this I have a pregnant Kelly sitting next to me, a 70 lb snoring dog in a tight ball between us and am preparing to go spend the rest of the day in the dirt of Rhys' garden planting, shaping and remembering a short life that has reminded me to be who I am.