Messages left behind

What messages do we leave behind for others to find?  Do we know when we write them, or draw them, when (or if) they will be found?  And, what will be interpreted by those who find them?  I can’t know.  My messages are fairly obvious.

Owen’s messages were not so obvious.  He often wrote in code, things only certain others would be able to decipher.  I feel some comfort in knowing he shared so much with me in this life, that I have a good idea what his messages were meant to tell us.  Most of the time, anyway.

Nat and Michael came to the house yesterday to pick up some furniture from Owen’s room.  I had called Nat on Friday to ask if he wanted Owen’s futon, which he used as a bed, never as a couch.  Owen worked at a futon store in 2006, when we first moved back to Sonoma County.  He used his employee discount to buy one of the nicer futons.  Since Nat and Anna needed a couch, I thought they should make use of it.

Owen had some of Michael’s furniture in his larger bedroom, the one where he spent most of his time.  His audio equipment, his LPs, his briefcase, and his video equipment was stored in these cabinets.  Michael’s sister moved out of his apartment a few months ago, so he has room for the furniture again. 

When I walked in tonight, I knew they had been here and moved these furnishings that made Owen’s bedroom/living room comfortable, and “his”.  I knew because the plants on the stairs that lead up to his rooms were all on the floor next to the stairs.  I immediately felt his loss again at the black pit level.

Dave and I were just returning from a weekend of working on his mom’s house.  I got here first, alone, the cats meowing, the house cold, and seeing the empty stairs, brought me to tears before I could drop my bags. 

It’s not like I didn’t tell them it was okay to come get these things.  I did, and I meant it.  The realization that Owen’s main room upstairs is now a storage room, and not his bedroom, was just too much.  I couldn’t walk up the stairs to see the changes.  Instead, I replaced the plants, watered them, fed the cats, and continued bringing my stuff up from the car. 

I called Nat then, and asked what I should expect when I ascend those stairs tomorrow.  He said that other than seeing the room as no longer Owen’s bedroom, I should be prepared to see some of Owen’s drawings that they found behind the furniture - the little ones he made on the backs of movie theater refund slips.  I’ve seen others, so I had an idea of what I would find.  I asked Nat to tell me about them, and he described one of them.  I said Owen had drawn similar pictures in his journal, so I decided I should wait until tomorrow, until daylight, to take a look.  Nat left the drawings on Owen’s homemade coffee table, and Michael took one home to keep with some of Owen’s other belongings that he’s collected over time.

Owen was a master at leaving messages.  He left them everywhere.  Two days after he went missing, I found a poem he’d written on a scrap of paper, one that will wait for time to pass before I can share it with anyone other than that handful of friends and family who’ve already read it.  It was just thrown among a bunch of other papers on our desk.  Feeling after those first two days,  that he was already gone, and before his body was found, the poem was meaningful in the big picture, and also in the mystery. 

We have found nothing that indicates Owen would do himself intentional harm.  Quite the opposite.  What we find are messages of the sadness and the humor he felt in this life, and his constant attempts to make it all better.  He wrote about his hopes, his dreams, his loves, his disappointments, his lists of things to accomplish, his questions about the future, and his plans.  He had lots of plans.

Not knowing all the details of what happened the night of May 29, 2007, will continue to haunt our family, until we have some bona fide answers.  We collect Owen’s messages, talk among ourselves, cry, and wake the next day to go to work, come home, and do it all over again. 

Owen lived many lives in his short 20 years.  He shared them with us through his journals, drawings, poetry, and notes on tiny scraps of paper.  We are putting them together like an elaborate puzzle, but the missing pieces keep us from seeing the whole picture.  So, we imagine the rest.

When I brought the mail in tonight, there was a letter from Carla.  More messages, more pieces to the puzzle.  Thank you, Carla.

I think our time in this house is short now.  Dave, the cats, and I no longer need a large, old farmhouse, with poor heat, and too many apologies.  Walking into this house every day forces me to apologize for everything I’ve ever done, and everything I haven’t.  Maybe, that’ll never go away, no matter where we live.  Maybe, I’ll always feel like I was at fault for being out of town for my job that night.  Maybe, I’ll always feel like I let Owen down, by not being here when he needed a ride home.

For tonight, Owen’s messages are loud, but not all that clear.  I haven’t gone upstairs to look at the just-found drawings, but I can hear them from here in the living room.  Clarity will be a function of working the puzzle, for however long it takes.  The police gave up weeks ago.  I never will.

Song for the night:  Building a Mystery, Sarah McLachlan

http://youtube.com/watch?v=4AFDHia51Do

~ by Linda on November 25, 2007.