I Still Hear Him
It’s not likely to end. Ever. I hear Owen in a way no one else can. I hear him as only a mother can. I hear him asking me to listen to music with him, to understand what he saw and what he heard. I listened. I understood. And…I could only see so much. I stayed in the moment, every moment, as much as I could, not being him, and we loved that time together. He knew. He knew I would hear his music differently than he did, and it was okay.
We listened to lots of music together - for years. But, we listened to Nirvana so much, that we knew the notes, the words, and the universal messages. The first time I listened to tonight’s song in Owen’s room after he died - five weeks later - I passed out. I put the LP on the turntable (he liked LPs better than CDs), I turned to answer a question, and came to, at the end of the song. I just dropped to the floor on hearing the first few notes. I still have the scars on my left shoulder. I slept in his room that night. I wrote him a note before going to sleep, which still sits on his bookshelf.
Nat came over one day soon after that night, and said he had to listen to a particular song in Owen’s room. I asked him which one. He said, “Something in the Way”. I knew. He listened to it over and over. I listened from downstairs, knowing what it was doing to him. I kept listening for him to drop to the floor. He didn’t. Eventually, he walked down the stairs, changed…forever. He still hears Owen, too.
I rarely play this song now, because it reminds me of the early days, the days when Owen was still missing, and I knew I would never see him again. How did I know? Because I couldn’t feel him anymore, the way I did when he was just late coming home.
Song for the night: Something in the Way, Nirvana
emmitt-owen-riley
linda-siniard
I’m glad you hear so clearly. That won’t change, I’m sure.
Dear Roads,
I reread some of your earlier comments this evening. Damn, you’re good. You have an uncanny recollection of times past, and a beautiful way of illustrating then and now. Thank you for your words, your memories of Jenny, your unbelievable ability to share who you and your family were, and who you’ve become.
Always, I find myself smiling or crying, and sometimes, both. You have a gift. And, I am one of your many benefactors.
Linda
Thank you, Linda. Damn, you’re good. That made me laugh.
And as for recollection - finally, I think these times are seared and branded into your soul. You won’t forget them, ever. Strangely, looking back I can imagine a heightened kind of living during those long days of bereavement. That’s how living right on the edge of life can be.
The old cliche says that there’s none so blind as will not see. Perhaps it’s really true that there’s few who see so much as those who’ve had their eyes and minds well and widely opened.
And I’m sure you see that, too.
Linda-I am always struck by the closeness you shared with Owen. I know all parents are close with their children to some extent, but you and Owen had a connection way beyond that. If there is any comfort at all, it is that love continues, and that bond will never be broken, though it is experienced in a different realm. L Lonnette
P. S. Roads IS good–REALLY good. I read his (book) blog all last night. What a wonderful way he has with words, and what touching sensitivity.