Photos of My Heart, My Last Two Hugs

My heart takes “photos” and stores them away. I learned to “stop action” on certain moments and allow them to imprint on my heart. I can tell you what my father’s greeting to me was the day before he died. I remember dinner that night, my mom was working on a wedding cake and she was literally up to her ears in buttercream and sugared daisies. I remember him going to bed and giving her one of those sideways kisses they shared. My father died of a major heart attack at home that next morning. I was 13 .

I remember my last hug from Justin, it was August 16th, 2010. His flight left at 3:45 PM, he was headed back to South Dakota for his last semester. He was close to completing his Master’s degree, he had worked hard, and lived frugally during his time in South Dakota. He was concerned for us, Doug had been out of work for 18 months and Justin fretted that we had spent too much on special things for his visit. I had splurged on steak to have a nice meal before he left. I am glad that I did. He was always appreciative, had a way of looking at you and listening to you that made you know you were the focus of his attention.

We said our goodbyes in the kitchen. I did not go with Doug to take him to the airport. I held his thin shoulders and told him how proud I was of him, how much I loved him. I always had to bite my lip so I wouldn’t cry.  Time was short and Doug said they had to go, one last hug, one last “I love you.”  It was a Monday.

Six weeks later on a Monday, a police officer knocked on our door and told us that we needed to sit down. He told us our son Justin was dead.

The first viewing was Friday of that week, October 1st. The simple wood casket from the Trappist monks rested in the chapel, silent, still, and closed. I remember embracing the casket, wanting to draw my son to me, my necklace hit the wood of the casket with such a hollow sound, incomprehensible that my Justin was inside, cold and lifeless.

I think often on my two last hugs, one full of life, the last angular wood, unresponsive. The two stand side by side in my memory, both are realities of life. There will always be a last hug, a final word, and we do not know when that may be, life is fragile and fleeting.

We  frequently visit Justin’s grave, clean off the headstone, feel the headstone radiating heat as it basks in the  sun. I thought I was the only one whom it gave pause, until Doug mentioned the warmth from the stone. My mind lingers on whom lies beneath our feet, close, yet far from our touch. I find the warmth of the headstone a jarring juxtaposition, the warm headstone, our son cold and quiet. The stone has no heart and yet it is warm, our Justin had a beautiful heart and now it lies cold and still.

An entire year has elapsed since I last held my son, gazed on that face, saw the wistful smile that was his. The weight of the anticipation of the year anniversary presses down on my heart. It is not that we do not love those around us and take joy in their presence, we do, it’s just that we miss him.